#{[Main] Feel Beyond These Prism Walls

[allmoshnobrain]

𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

part 01 of ? | masterpost

word count: 3.3k

Clearly, he was a decent guy, but it got you wondering why he ended up there, all by himself in a town he didn't know squat about. Was he on the run from something? What brought him here in the first place? You were itching to find out. Beyond mere curiosity, a peculiar fascination started to take root.

✦ warnings and tags: jason newsted x reader, age gap (23/38), no use of y/n, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine dynamics maybe?, drinking, reader has a backstory and it's kinda tragic, a bit of angst

The end of winter came with the soft, cheerful chirping of the birds returning from migration, the air crisp as the morning sun rose. Warm light seeped through the white curtains, being caught by the small crystal prism hanging from the window. The room felt like a dream as you opened your eyes, sunlight and small rainbows casting warm glows in the walls, the wardrobe, the bed, your legs.

It was such a beautiful sight to wake up to, and you couldn’t help but linger in bed just a bit longer, curling up under the covers. The morning air hinted at a warm day ahead, but the tip of your nose felt cold, and you wished you could sleep for just a few more minutes.

In theory, you could. It was a Saturday, and weekends were meant for resting, but after working hard all week, you couldn’t bear the thought of wasting your precious free time snoozing — especially with such a gorgeous day practically calling your name, begging you to get out there and soak it all in.

You could totally head down to Main Street, hit up the only bookshop in town, and grab some groceries on the way back. Then, you'd probably ring up your best friend Sophie, and the two of you would end up spending the whole afternoon in her room, chatting about everything and nothing, with you venting about having to see your ex, Ethan, at your night gig and how he just couldn't stop staring at you all night long.

Life was calm that way. Predictable, even. It’s not like you could expect more than that, living in a small town such as yours, where nothing much ever really happened, and nothing ever seemed to change. But, even as you stirred awake, you could feel in your chest a restlessness that you tried to ignore.

The longing for more than this.

Life hadn't been an easy journey for you the past couple of years. When you were younger, the idea of living in the small town where you grew up felt like a cozy certainty you'd had since you were a kid. Being an only child, you were close to your parents. The thought of leaving them behind to start a new life elsewhere just didn't sit right with you. But then, everything changed about a week after your 21st birthday, when you and your parents got into a car crash. While you managed to walk away with just a few scars, they didn't make it.

And just like that, you were on your own. All those dreams you had, all those plans for the future, just seemed to lose their meaning overnight. You didn’t have any close kin, but managed to get back on your feet thanks to your family’s friends. That's the thing about small towns, right? People looked out for each other. But, as much as you adored the place, being there was also too painful. You knew you needed more than this, living in a house that used to be bursting with love and laughter but now was only home to you and your solitude. 

You let out a sigh, blinking as you gazed at the sun's reflection on the roof. Wallowing in the past wasn't gonna do you any good; if you wanted to make the most of the day, you'd better haul yourself out of bed soon. With a grunt, you sat up, yawning and stretching your arms. A quick peek at the clock told you it was still early — eight in the morning.

A sudden racket down on the street made you furrow your brow, piquing your curiosity. You hopped out of bed, drawing back the curtains, and let out a little gasp when you spotted the moving truck parked at the neighboring house. That place had been up for sale forever, until one day it wasn't. Nobody in the neighborhood had a clue who'd snagged it, so you just figured it must have been someone from out of town. But you sure didn't expect them to move in this fast, whoever they were. You watched as a bunch of guys hopped out of the truck and started hauling boxes and furniture, an idea starting to brew in your head.

You had no clue who your new neighbors were, but you were itching to find out. The thought of meeting some fresh faces was downright thrilling, a break from the same old routine day in and day out. With a spring in your step, you headed to the bathroom, suddenly excited and humming a tune as you brainstormed the best way to make an introduction. Baking up a batch of brownies seemed like a solid plan; you were a whiz in the kitchen, and they were a breeze to whip up. Plus, it'd be the perfect excuse to get to know the new folks in the neighborhood.

You got right to it after your shower; you loved cooking, so those brownies were whipped up in a flash. The kitchen was soon filled with the heavenly aroma of chocolate baking, and you seized the chance to brew some fresh coffee too. Once everything was ready, you arranged the brownies all nice and cute in a porcelain tray and decided to throw in some coffee in a thermal bottle for good measure.

The neighbor's door was wide open, with furniture and boxes scattered everywhere in the living room and on the porch. You didn't wanna barge in uninvited, so you rang the bell instead. After a few minutes of waiting, your new neighbor finally showed up. He seemed older than you, with short, curly brown hair and sharp blue eyes that sized you up quickly. You couldn't help but wonder if he had a wife or maybe some little ones you'd end up meeting.

"Hey," he greeted, with a kind of shy smile playing on his lips. "Need a hand?"

"Hi," you replied, feeling a bit bashful all of a sudden. You adjusted the tray of brownies and the coffee bottle in your hands, and he quickly stepped in, taking the tray from you. "You're the new guy, right? I'm your next-door neighbor, brought over some welcome brownies for you and the family."

He chuckled softly. "Thanks. But no family here, just me."

"Oh, my bad. I kinda assumed..." You trailed off, your curiosity getting the better of you, which earned you a soft laugh from him.

"Yeah, long story. I'm Jason, by the way. Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, Jason," you grinned, then gave him your name. "I'd offer a handshake, but... yeah." You trailed off, feeling a bit embarrassed as you glanced at the tray Jason was holding. He chuckled.

"It's all good. And hey, thanks for these," he said, gesturing to the tray of brownies. Then, he hesitated for a second before asking, "Wanna...  join me for breakfast? The place is a bit of a disaster right now, but we could chill on the porch if you're up for it."

"Oh, sure!" you agreed with a grin. Meeting new folks was a rarity in your usual routine, so this was kind of a thrill. Plus, Jason seemed like a solid guy, and you were genuinely curious about his story and why he'd end up in your sleepy little town all on his own.

You and Jason kicked back on the porch steps; he managed to find a couple of mugs amidst the mess of moving boxes while you poured the fresh coffee, the scent lingering in the air as the sun beamed down, casting dancing shadows through the leaves of the tree out front.

Jason was quiet, almost like he was feeling a bit shy himself, which got you thinking about how to break the ice. Your curiosity sparked up again as you noticed some pretty pro-looking gear on the moving truck: amps and what seemed like a guitar case.

"You play guitar?" you asked, shooting him a curious look. He smiled, holding up a hand to signal for a moment as he finished chowing down on his brownie.

"Bass, actually," he replied, his eyes lighting up a bit. "Was in a band, but I bounced. Figured I'd focus on some other stuff for a while."

"Ah, gotcha. So, did Oak Ridge call your name for some musical inspiration?" you quipped, and he chuckled.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. I’m from Battle Creek," he replied, and you nodded. You'd never actually been to the city, but you knew it was somewhere in Michigan, about an hour's drive from your neck of the woods. "Been out in California for a few years now. Figured it might be nice to come back home, but I didn't want to go back to my old stomping grounds, so... after some searching, I wound up here. It's a pretty little town," he said, his voice softening, and you couldn't help but smile. "Thought maybe it'd give me a little peace of mind."

"Yeah, it's pretty damn peaceful around here, that's for sure. Can get a bit too quiet sometimes, but hey, can't complain," you remarked, and he let out a chuckle. "If you ever need a hand with anything, I'm just a stone's throw away."

"Thanks," he grinned. "So, you're a local then?"

"Born and raised," you replied, your tone tinged with a touch more melancholy than you intended.

“Don’t you like it here?” he asked, his voice gentle. You shook your head, offering a small smile.

"It's not that. It's just... My folks passed away not too long ago, so... It's kinda tough being here without 'em," you admitted softly, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks as you noticed the sympathy in Jason's eyes. "Sorry, didn't mean to dump all that on you."

"You're not. I'm really sorry for your loss," he murmured, reaching out to take your hand in his. His touch was warm, his rough palm against your softer skin offering an unexpected source of comfort. You blushed, casting your gaze downward.

"Thanks," you whispered, and he cleared his throat lightly before releasing your hand. You almost missed the sensation of his touch, a lingering warmth ghosting over your skin as you lifted your gaze to meet his. "I should probably let you get back to your stuff... Need a hand with anything?"

"Don't sweat it, I've got some guys on the job," he grinned. "Plus, you shouldn't spend your weekend playing servant for an old man like me. You've already treated me to some free breakfast, after all."

"Yeah, you're welcome," you chuckled softly, and he joined in with a laugh of his own. As you stood up, he followed suit. "Catch you later, Mr...?"

"Newsted," he replied, "But you can just call me Jason."

"Got it. See you around, Jason," you grinned.

"See you."

The rest of your day unfolded just as you'd mapped it out; a stroll down Main Street, a pit stop at Mrs. Smith's shop for a cup of coffee, and a quick swing by the bookshop before snagging some essentials at the grocery store. Yet, amidst the routine, your mind kept circling back to Jason. You figured a simple introduction would have satisfied your curiosity, but there was an undeniable pull to learn more about him, to unravel the sadness that lingered in his voice when he’d touched on his past.

It was a weird sensation, especially when you caught yourself replaying the way he'd gently held your hand, offering a comfort that hit you deeper than you expected. Clearly, he was a decent guy, but it got you wondering why he ended up there, all by himself in a town he didn't know squat about. Was he on the run from something? What brought him here in the first place? You were itching to find out.

Beyond mere curiosity, a peculiar fascination started to take root.

Your friend Sophie didn't miss the fact that you were zoning out. As you both sprawled out on her bedroom rug, surrounded by a heap of empty beer bottles in her tiny trash can and MTV music videos blaring from her shelf-mounted TV, your thoughts kept drifting back to Jason. The slight buzz from the booze made it even tougher to concentrate on anything else.

"You're not lost in Ethan-land again, are you?" Sophie quipped, and you tore your gaze away from the ceiling fan to meet her eyes. A grin tugged at your lips as you took in the single blue streak in her short, dark hair — a rebellious touch of authenticity her folks had begrudgingly allowed while she was still living under their roof. "Don't tell me he's been lurking around your workplace again. I swear, if he is, I'll kick his fucking ass."

“It’s not that, but thanks anyway," you grinned. Sophie arched an eyebrow.

"Well, you're definitely lost in thought about something. I can tell by that look of yours."

"Did you hear? I got new neighbors moving in today," you mentioned. "Well, not neighbors, just one guy apparently."

"So, is this the mystery that's been occupying your brain?" Sophie teased, and you let out a grunt. "Is he hot?" she prodded, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

You rolled your eyes, a smile playing on your lips, but the thought lingered in your mind nonetheless. Sure, you'd noticed Jason's looks, but what really grabbed your attention was his demeanor — he seemed so easygoing, yet here he was, uprooting his life to move to a tiny town all by himself. And he had this... way about him. Comforting, you'd call it. Maybe it was all in your head, but you couldn't shake the feeling that he carried a weight of sadness and solitude, much like you did. You wondered if he harbored the same itch for something different — for something new that even you couldn't quite put your finger on.

As for his looks... Well, you couldn't deny he was easy on the eyes, with his gorgeous hair and those piercing blue eyes. His smile felt infectious and genuine, and you couldn’t forget about those hands of his — warm, big, and sturdy, like they could tackle anything.

"He's decent," you muttered, though truth be told, thinking about him for this long had left a bit of a buzz coursing through your body. It hit you then: you wanted to dig deeper, to unravel more about him. It was a weird sensation, really. In a small town like this, meeting new faces wasn't exactly an everyday occurrence. Most folks you knew had been around forever. 

Encountering someone entirely fresh was a rarity — and you could tell you were already getting sucked into the whirlwind of it.

 ☆

It was early evening when the moving crew finally wrapped up. They had unloaded all of Jason’s stuff from the trucks, sorted it out by rooms, and even put together some of the more complicated furniture. Moving had always been a stress-fest, but this time it had been something else. Jason had never realized he had so much junk piled up until now.

He snagged the coffee bottle you'd left out earlier, pouring himself a bit of the drink and grumbling when he realized it was stone cold. Figures — it had been brewed for breakfast, hours before. It dawned on him that he hadn't eaten a thing all day, and suddenly his crankiness made a whole lot more sense. Sure, he could try warming the coffee up, but the thought of any extra effort felt like it would drain the last ounce of patience he had left. With a sigh, he gulped down the cold coffee, the memory of you lingering with the faint bitter aftertaste.

You were a curious little thing, unexpected but a welcome surprise in his morning routine. Jason found himself thinking about you more than he’d expected, a girl with kindness in her heart yet a sadness mirroring his own in her eyes. Getting to know you, even just a little, made him feel selfish. What could he possibly understand about your sorrow, someone who had endured so much loss? He remembered being your age, brimming with life, hopes, and dreams. Losing both parents at such a young age — he couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been. Even if he was trying to escape his own troubles, they paled in comparison to yours.

Yeah, maybe he had been on the run for a while. Ever since he'd reached his breaking point and found the courage to say enough's enough, to walk away from Metallica after years of disrespect and heartache. But why did it feel like he'd lost it all, when he was the one who made the call to bail? Jason couldn’t deny that the sadness he’d been feeling, along with the relentless questions, accusations, and those damn interview requests were pushing him to the brink of insanity.

He decided he’d reached his breaking point, had his fill of it all. He wanted to disappear somewhere folks hadn't even heard of James fucking Hetfield and Lars fucking Ulrich, where nobody would hassle him for ditching Metallica, wouldn't grill him about every move he wanted to make. So he looked for somewhere where he could just quit — maybe buy some land, tend to some critters, and jam out in peace. Oak Ridge seemed as good a spot as any, and before he knew it, he found himself snagging a house in the small town, at least until he figured out his next move. With more cash than he knew what to do with, being out of the spotlight for a bit wasn't gonna do him any harm. If anything, he figured it might just do the opposite.

Jason's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the jingle of keys at his front door. He frowned, setting his mug in the sink and tiptoeing to the room. His eyebrow shot up when he heard a soft curse, instantly recognizing the voice as yours. With a few brisk steps, he swung the door open, finding you on the other side. You let out a yelp, cheeks flushed, and he realized with an amused smile you were obviously a bit drunk. Sure, he'd been more than tipsy at your age, but you didn't strike him as the type to get so plastered you'd mistake your neighbor's house for your own.

"Oh, Mr. Newsted! I-I'm really sorry," you stammered, your face now definitely turning beet red. Jason couldn't help but bite his lower lip, trying to hold back his laughter. You were clearly embarrassed — it was funny, but also endearing.

“You’re here for dinner?” he joked, and you blinked, looking surprised. He chuckled softly. "Just kidding. Are you okay?"

"I'm... I'm fine," you mumbled. "I'm really, really sorry. I forgot my porch light was off, and I'm so used to it being on that when I saw your porch lit up, I... I mean, it's always been off until today, so..."

"It's alright. You want some water?" he offered. Despite knowing you'd sober up soon enough, he couldn't help but be concerned. Hopefully all you'd have to deal with the next day was a hangover and some embarrassment.

"I'm okay," you insisted, still a bit flushed. "But thanks. I should probably head home now."

"Make sure you eat something, drink some water, and maybe take a cold shower before hitting the hay, okay?" he advised. "It might ease the hangover tomorrow."

"Thanks," she giggled, and he couldn't help but smile back. "Goodnight, Mr. Newst... Jason."

"Night," he chuckled softly. He watched you as you made your way to your house, opening the door. He let out a small, relieved sigh when he saw you step inside, flicking on the lights and locking the door behind you. It was good to know you were safe.

And just like that, Jason felt his bad mood melt away. Sure, he was still tired, and he didn't think he could ever shake off the grumpiness on an empty stomach, but having you around was definitely a pleasant surprise.

Maybe moving to this little town was gonna turn out to be a pretty nice experience after all.

✧ if you'd like to be tagged on the next parts, let me know and I'll add you to the tag list! ❤ ✧

[kagrenacs]

Explaining the Iceberg #6

*Some things aren’t covered, namely things i’ve already discussed or content that I don’t feel is appropriate. And not everything is covered in depth

Tatterdemalion Moon Colonies: A since deleted forum post from MK, discussing the moon colonies of Reman that would later appear in c0da

Tamriel is the Far Shores: Orgnum is the immortal King of the Maormer, also said to be the Serpent God of the Sakatal’ indicating some connection to the Yokudan God of everything, Sakatal. Orgnum’s goal is to conquer Tamriel, this theory states that he may have mantled the Yokudan God and is confusing Tamriel for the Far Shores.

Water is Memory: One of the more difficult concepts to really pin down in these kind of theories, so bear with me. This topic has been brought up a few times in older lore discussions, and once again in ESO quite recently. First there should be clarification that I mean water both metaphorically and literally, just like the towers, there is no distinction between real and fake because this is a video game world. Second thing to note: There’s a lot of conflicting theories and ideas on this, i’m only providing the way I can conceptualize this all. If I provided every theory i’d surely hit some sort of character limit. Do you remember the metaphor about every soul in existence being a singular drop in an ocean? This is looking at the ocean itself, it’s the collective consciousness and memories of everyone out there, past, present and future. But this isn’t a synonym for souls and energy, this is a whole separate process. Sometimes souls are shown to be able to live without their memories (the soul carin), sometimes reflections of people's memories get stuck to places like ghosts (memory stones) When someone dies, their soul/energy and their memories may stick together and go to an Aedra or Daedra, or they might get split apart (like a Vestige) and end up in the Dreamsleeve to get recycled and in the Drowned Lamp which is a name for where all knowledge lost to history goes. This concept can be seen with the Daedra too, when discussing the ‘waters of oblivion’ when they get banished their essence heads back to this beginning place to spring back up. Water is memory also gets brought up quite often talking about Sotha Sil, who Vivec says is the selfishness of the sea, and whose ‘daughter’ is Mnemoli/Memory.

Crassius Curio, Time traveller: Another variant on the Crassius Curio plagiarism theory, accounting for why the lusty argonian maid is in ESO.

The Republic of Hahd: Mentioned in the Pocket Guide to the Empire, a group of people who claimed they lived off the coast of summerset, in an underwater civilization called Hahd. The only point in history that they became relevant was when they received tariffs for the transport of ‘mnemolite’ from the people of Hahd to the people of Nahd, and nearly sparked war between the Empire and the Altmer as they tried to figure out what was going on. Hahd and Nahd were both made up, thought to be by a group of psjjic students, as the island of Artaeum disappeared in that same year again.

Leaper Demons: Another name for Mehrunes Dagon, before he was cursed to become Dagon. Named this because of his ability to jump from Kalpa to Kalpa

Zero Stone: This is related to the towers, it’s the ‘heart’ of the tower, the piece that keeps it stable and functioning, essentially like a cornerstone. For the Red Tower and Walk-Brass this was a literal heart (the Heart of Lorkhan), but sometimes it’s other things like a fruit, or a person.

Tiber Septim Awoke Dagoth Ur: In the same short time as the Tiber Wars, where Tiber Septim was attempting to conquer all of Tamriel, Dagoth Ur awoken in Morrowind, which eventually forced ALMSIVI’s hand in signing the Armistice that would make Morrowind a part of the empire, hand over the Numidium, but allow Morrowind to largely keep it’s sovereignty. This theory suggests that Tiber Septim purposefully awoke Dagoth Ur as a long-term strategy, rather than trying to defeat ALMSIVI in wars. If not done purposefully, Dagoth ur may have been awakened by the presence of Tiber Septim (whose thu’um seemed to have came from Wulfharth, a survivor of the battle of Red Mountain and associate of Dagoth Ur)

Akatosh’s Shadow: MK mentioned Peryite as Akatosh’s shadow. Akatosh/Auriel largely introduced stability into the chaos of the Dawn Era as the God of time. Peryite has a similar function, that being natural order, where he micromanages Oblivion and Nirn. There’s more to this theory that i haven’t included due to sake of brevity  https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/4zct3i/the_shadow_of_aka_peryite/

The people of Et’Ada: Mentioned in the books The Light and Dark and Sithis, the people of et’ada are the descendants of the clash between Anu and Padomay, the original spirits that would give up their forms to become mortal

The Dwemer became their creations: A thought that instead of the commonly accepted Numidium Skin Theory, the Dwemer souls are the ones powering their automatons. 

Lefthanded Maomer: An in-universe theory that the Lefthanded elves and the Maomer are related. Evidence for this may exist in Orgunm being ‘Sakatal’

Skyrim getting Colder: A theory that says Skyrim is entering the ice age because of the recent snowfalls and the presence of Sabertooth cats and mammoths.

Anti-Magik Zones: Probably taken from D&D, areas where magic doesn’t work for some reason or other.

The Greedy Man: Another name for Lorkhan due to him ‘stealing’ the divinity of his fellow Et’Ada

Vvardenfell Lesbian Anomaly: The prescence of a large amount of wlw npcs in ESO and the presence of Tel Mora, an island full of women and Mistress Dratha who says she hates men. While the ESO one i’d argue that there’s a fairly equal spread of same sex couples, and Tel Mora is certainly the original developers adding in something ‘strange’ by having an entirely female island, various Lgbt fans of the games have made their own theories on this. @boethiah has proposed that Tel Mora was established as a safe place for lesbians, and Telmoran is the in-universe equivalent to ‘lesbian’ 

Prism Textract: A reference to a book from the mod Legacy of the Dragonborn

Ruptga: The chief god of the Yokudan Pantheon, people debate on whether he’s equivalent to Akatosh or Magnus, if he’s even equivalent to any god. He was the first god to figure out the Walkabout, and taught the other gods how to survive Sakatal (God of everything) shedding its skin.

The Elder Council world control:  References a theory that the Elder Council is an incredibly powerful political entity that controls the entire world. (looking at how things were handled in Oblivion, doubtful.)

Tiber Septim Shapeshifting dragon: Ingame theories that Tiber Septim was a shapeshifting dragon based on the empire’s affiliation with them. (source seems to originate from GT Noonan, pre-Oblivion and Skyrim) Could be an early idea for Dragonborns, or perhaps just a wild conspiracy theory.

Insane Time-God: Another MK text, et’Ada Eight Aedra, Eat the Dreamer. States Aka has gone insane due to how many names he has

The Staff of Unity and Chaos: The object you need to assemble in tes Arena. Is able to open gateways to other realms, near instantly kill people. In some of the early drafts of the main quest of ESO, a similar relic was proposed called the Staff of Towers, and would have been similar to the main quest of Arena.

Dracocrysalis: Mentioned in the Nu-Mantia, it’s largely unknown what this means apart from ‘it keeps elder magic bound so it can’t change into something lesser’ based off wording it probably means something akin to changing into a dragon.

Telescopic Aurbis: Refers to a quote from MK A single Wheel? More like a Telescope that stretches all the way back to the Eye of the Anui-El, with Padomaics innumerable along its infinite walls. Essentially this refers to the cycle of Kalpas, all wheels lined up with one another would make a telescope-like shape. The focal point of the telescope would be Mundus, ascending upwards you hit oblivion, then Aetherius surrounding that, and then lesser, more chaotic realms beyond that. This is also mentioned in the Murkmire book ‘Lost tales of the Famed Explorer.’

Gaenor is Sai: Gaenor is said to be one of the hardest bosses of Morrowind, in the Tribunal expansion you can give him gold and allow him to become an incredibly strong warrior. He has incredibly high luck (770 points) making him difficult to hit. This theory states that he is either Sai, the god of luck himself, or a champion of his.

Haskill is the Actual Mad God: This might be a couple different theories. 1st: The events of the Shivering Isles is a trick played on the player character by Haskill/Sheogorath, and the Sheo you see and interact with is just a projection. 2nd: From a loremaster interview from ESO, Haskill states he’s the ‘vestige’ of Sheogorath, the mortal remnants of the person who mantled the mad god in the last greymarch.

Moraelyn=Nerevar: Moraelyn of the King Edward books was likely an early draft for Nerevar. Both have association with roses, both are from House Mora and are considered a champion of the Dunmer. He probably participated in the War with the Nords, being described in the 36 Lessons.

Tsaesci Vampire Language eaters: From MK’s And we ate it to become it and another interview. https://www.imperial-library.info/content/fireside-chats Tsaesci feed on language, he doesn’t state if this is metaphorical, or literal (if that even matters in these games)

Scarab’s transformation: Refers to Scarab that Transforms into the New Man, or Amaranth. The Scarab is a metaphor for godhood. (Scarabs are symbols of divinity in Ancient Egypt) and the New Man is a person achieving Amaranth and creating a new dream/universe.

Trinimalarky: A fun name for Malarky. 

King Dead Wolf-Deer: A Bosmer transformed by the Wild Hunt. Lived from the first era until the beginning of the third.

Multiple Underkings: Another statement by MK, general consensus seems to be this refers to the existence of the Underking as two people, Wulfharth a nordic general from the 1st era who held the title. Zurin Arctus, who may have taken up the title after the 2nd Era, when Tiber Septim turned him into an undead being. Or both of them sharing the same body known as the ‘Underking’

Thot-Box: https://www.c0da.es/thotbox/7b10359a40bba7d2e654bc10226f694a68009f15 the worlds worst choose your own adventure. From what I understand of KIMMUNE, a thot-box is some sort of AI

Baar Dau is Shit: Pretty well known at this point. One myth states that Malacath got into a disagreement with Vivec and pooped on Vivec City..

Nu-Hatta: In reference to the person, they’re an ancestor cult member. Otherwise this is used to refer to the Nu-Hatta Intercept written by MK. The text in question seems to be a list of the various ways mortals have achieved divinity. 

Talos brought back dragons: Not sure about this one, there’s too many results to filter through to find what this is specifically about

Lyg’s Numidium: The thought here is that if Lyg is the parallel to Tamriel, then it should also have a Numidium that reinforces time and makes events a reality.

Dawn Era Ideological warfare: From UESP, Quote: The Dawn Era was a period during which time followed an incomprehensible nonlinear path and the very laws of nature remained unset, making a timeline an artificial fabrication. A conflict was simultaneously a mere ideological difference of opinion and a manifest war. What this means in simple terms, all possible outcomes in the Dawn era were simultaneous. This might also refer to the Ehlnofey wars where the wandering ehlnofey (ancestor of men) and the old ehlnofey (ancestor of mer) differed in opinion about the existence of Mundus and went to war.

Vivec destroyed Yokuda: A reference to the 17th lesson of Vivec, where Vivec states For a year they studied under their sword saints and then for another Vivec taught them the virtue of the little reward. Vivec chose a king for a wife and made another race of monsters which ended up destroying the west completely. In a literal sense (not that this means much in context of the lessons), this seems to indicate that Vivec created the sword saints, who ultimately ended up sinking Yokuda with the Pankratosword technique. Vivec also said malewife rights.

Ayrenn KIMMUNE: Another MK text. This one states Queen Ayrenn is actually a 9th era cyborg from the future. This was written after MK read an early draft for the Dominion quests and wanted to make it cooler. The writers of ESO have stated they don’t consider this canon.

Tiger Guars: A bit of old morrowind lore, Imperials would mistakenly call Guars, ‘tigers’

Hermaeus Mora is a failed Elder Scroll: Two theories here: 1st: The Black Books are Mora’s failed attempts to create Elder Scrolls (The first pages reference concepts such as the Dreamer and CHIM, Elder scrolls are fragments of creation) 2nd: Hermaeus Mora himself is a failed Elder Scroll. The Census of Daedric Princes describes him as ‘born of thrown-away ideas used during the creation of Mundus’

SITHISIT: the Ehlnofex word for Sithis

Khajiit Tattoo theft: Rajhin the thief god was said to steal a tattoo off Empress Kintyra’s neck as she slept. 

Mythopoeia: irl, it’s essentially a term for ‘world-building’ In the context of the elder scrolls, it means the ability to affect reality using belief or the will to change (similar to CHIM) In morrowind Yagrum uses it to describe the enchantments Kagrenac placed upon the tools. 

Dragons Biological Time-Machines: In the early drafts for dragons, MK described them as Biological Time-Machines. While this isn’t entirely reflective of what they are now, some truth holds. Being shards of Aka, dragons inherently have some ability to alter time itself.

Argonian Tits: I can’t keep doing this.

The Elven Lie: From what I gather, it seems to relate to the idea that the gods are infallible, when in fact they have weaknesses and flaws.

[grim-faux]

2 _ 27 _ Sad Little Shadow

First

 The hallways sat empty, much as they always were when he snuck away to wander aimlessly. Endless open passages, winding and twisting. The staircases he stumbled upon only ever go down, some ladders too, only guided him deeper into the depths of thick shadows and teases of twilight. He only ever seemed to sink perpetually into this place, but never really went anywhere at all. He supposed that was lucky, given he might not ever find his way back up with how far he delved without supervision.

 Shimmering screens and television boxes gifted to him offered reprieve, but why would he ever want to leave? The world was nothing, he learned that. An empty void, cruel and punishing, which offered bitter disappointment to those intent on seeking... more. And the despair, the reality of everything he was once so certain of. In the wake of his hardest lesson, he was promised a place. Somewhere, always waiting. If he wanted it. His needs were so basic, what else could he possibly want? Except for one, which could not be supplied….

 “Hey!” he called, without concern or woe. Yelling through the empty corridors, receiving no sound back, not even the resonance of his own voice. “HOI!”

 No one returned the cries. No one ever called back. No one searched for him. It wasn’t like the place was dangerous, at least… not when he was around. He made it safe. He was always very careful. Regardless, somewhere or another time, the kid would run off.

 That wasn’t new at this point. Every time, he did try. He made an effort. Wanted them to stay close, keep in his sight. It wasn’t hard, if the doors stayed closed. None of them wanted to stay still for too long. No one wanted to stay with him. Eventually, each and every one.

 Mono turned the corner, trying once more. “Hey! Don’t be afraid!” He lowered his arms to his sides and rocked back on his heels, frown deepening. He frowned a lot lately. “Here! Where you?”

 Without fail, every time. The moment he turned his back or was flat out careless, he’d lose track. They left him. Eventually. That never changed. Still, he went on calling and carrying through the hallways. The light jammed around door panels glittering, as he rushed past. Coattail flashing, feet… barely hitting the solid, hard floor. Very much a floor, in an ambiguous hallway, anywhere, in any building. Nothing bizarre or frightening here. No matter where he searched, how far he ran. It was only and always a vague, obscure building somewhere.

 Resigned that the other kid was… gone. He didn’t know where. He didn’t want to think about it. This time, he had been certain it would be all right. He was all right. He could protect them! They didn’t… no one wanted him. They didn’t understand. They hated him! Gone! Good riddance!

 Cheeks flushed and eyes shimmering with hot tears, he bottled up the hurt. It wasn’t hard to find his way back to that one room, and the chair. Always waiting. Perpetually patient. Endlessly faithful. The one object he looked forward to confiding his pain in. The one thing that never left him, in this lonely place.

 The door was always open, as it would always be. This was his place. This is where he kept himself, where it was most safe. Nothing could find him here.

 Not even….

 Patches of the slate walls rupture with rolling, foul ripples of bubbling tissue. A gargantuan orb sweeps beneath the wet shutter of its lids, blinking. The ceiling too, crumbled here and there as gooey rolls of flesh hung out. As he rushed to the chair, poised at the focal of the disturbing scene, the floor splint and creaked upward. A gnash of cackling voices filled the room, in the dark shadows within the sweaty hills, teeth grin.

 “NO!” Mono barked. He clambered onto the chair and held the backside, curling his legs beneath his ever wonderous coat. “You don’t look at me! You can’t Ļ̶̉ò̷̠o̴̪̅k̵̨͗ ̶͖̀Ă̷̦ ̵̮͠M̷̫͘Ë̷̬́!̶̜̈́”

 __

 The Thin Man stole his chin from the cup of his palm and gaped at the dingy, cracked walls surrounding him, the furniture out of place but the only memorabilia of the departed occupants. To one side of the wall, a long desk with a sliding door; upon it sat the smashed record player. An empty bookshelf, the bulk of its knickknacks lay on the floor, along with half the shelves.

 A perfectly drab, dusty room. No weeping orbs staring, no teeth a snapping. Natural decay of plaster and paper, not the decay of bones and tissue.

 That dream haunt. He didn’t like it. All dream haunts were terrible, but some worse than others, some harder to shake out of.

 In a deliberate heave, he pushed off his knees and stood slowly. This room had no window and was detached from another wing of the dwelling, along with the kitchen… he supposed, social gathering area? This side of the abode was more for personal entertainment and privacy.

 He flashed through the dim hall, making his trip quickly to those gathering areas and the dining space. When he insured the kitchen was quiet and the transmission scarce, he entered. The counters and cupboards received a brief glimpse, he sized up the functioning but untouched refrigerator. Aside from the dull erosion of hospitality, nothing is out of place. No crumbs, packages, discarded spoiled foods. He can feel the few starved insects gaze up at him, pleading for a bit of something, anything.

 With a crackly sigh, the Thin Man searched through the upper cabinets. He picked out a box of chewy meat sticks and departed the depressing, barren space.

 The child was deep-deep asleep when he chanced upon this location, and he left the little bundle in a cupboard while he went off to do his patrols around the city. He doesn’t expect the child to be present when he roamed back to this area – honest, he doesn’t expect anything of that child – yet, Mono remained in the perfectly decayed but hospital apartment. The lack of foraging did put the Thin Man off, but he didn’t mull over that at first.

 Usually, when he returned from his wandering, the boy would pop out of hiding and follow under foot, or in the least peer from a shadow while hidden, keeping his distance but observing. As if some other creature might have dragged on the hide of the Thin Man’s guise, and invaded through the front door.

 He took full advantage of this change, and secluded away to another room for some reading and quiet; only periodically emerging to wander through the corridors, lost in thought. Nothing in the literature he acquired does anything to satisfy his questions, nothing addressed his interests. Empty books, vacant passages – like the empty corridors he wandered, while he was only a boy. Lost. Searching. Seeking the things that ripped out of his grasp.

 Not once did he encounter the child, his younger-self, in the residence. The kitchen, as he certified moments before, remained untouched. What was he chewing on? Was he even eating?

 Long ago the boy left the room he first deposited him, and scurried into another room. A gaping wound sat at the wall base, beyond the edge of a drawer set. This is where the transmission cued him in, it was strongest in this small chamber. The Thin Man does not know if the crack opening goes back further, but by focusing he can discern that the wall did open through behind a large pile of discarded clothing along the floor. The connection is strongest somewhere in there.

.

 “Child,” he crooned. He leaned low to the wall and tapped at the chipped plaster. “You need to eat something. Something that is preferably food.” He grimaced at the thought.

 Children could go some (un)healthy while without the need to eat, but still he is concerned. This boy can’t resist exploring through the abode, exploring the rooms until he’s on the verge of collapse. Particularly, while he-himself has settled in for some inactive time, the child and their shared transmission, occasionally blipped out as the boy took on distance. Got away from him for the childish need for space and separation, most likely.

 Not a sound nor a flicker from the child. This all began to perturb him. A fresh prism of moods, he concluded. Some new event or another set Mono off, as was the case. He was helpless to intervene while without hint or grasp of the initial cause.

 Within the boards, a scuffle of something moved about. The child could be hurt, for all he knew.

 “Child,” he tried as before. “This food is very good. You’re hungry, are you not?” He took the meat stick and broken it out of its wrapping. He set the piece down, not directly by the crevice but near enough. “Won’t you come out?” He knelt and tilted over, enabling him to peer into the dark interior.

 No sign of the child. He wasn’t even graced by a scratching this time.

 “I’ll let you alone, then.” The Thin Man shifted back in a glitchy flash, a shadowy outline trailing. The one bulb in the ceiling dome sputtered, as he turned and departed the room.

 It was tempting to drift around the dwelling and ponder through this issue, wait out the child. However, Mono seemed resistant of his presence, and for that it would be best to make himself scarce. Give the boy a breather and give him space to come around on his own.

 When he stalled at the main entry door, hand on the doorhandle, he was despaired that the child didn’t reappear to confront him. For the briefest moment he held there, but only fleeting. In a glimmer he dissolved, as if he was never there.

 The Pale City never dried out. The roads never saw sunlight, runoff trickled down the cement walls of the looming skyscrapers continually. Even when the downpour took time off to recharge, the rain founds it way into everything; dry hollows in the walls, the abandoned clothing, even the food buried in cabinets.

 The Thin Man was unfocused as he idled through the shops and offices, browsing the usual books lined on the shelves or folders jammed into filing cabinets. He perused the covers and spines, the colors and thickness of the tomes – not seeing but searching. Endlessly. He tried to reign himself back on track, but questioned where his focus should align with. The Tower was the pivotal of his intent, but where to begin understanding that. He never thought of it much since evicting it from his haven, even when he acknowledged it was ever present. He forged the barrier to repel its grotesque presence, it used his powers to perpetuate the Signal and entrap the residents of the Pale City. He and They existed and cohabitated and held a symbiotic relationship. It promised safety, shelter.

 It was a cold building that eternally hungered, and no amount – no grand banquet, no endless supply, absolutely nothing – would be enough to satisfy its empty, rotten core.

 Perhaps if he was more prone to speculating about his place in the world, his eventual future, he would have grasped why the Tower was so lenient with its tethers. It knew everything and toyed with him for its own amusement. He was only a child.

 This outing was going nowhere. He grabbed a few random pamphlets along with a discarded shirt, and left the office. He took a roundabout way on his return, flittering through other stores and browsing over salvageable merchandise that caught his fancy. The evidence of other children was apparent in several shops, as evident by the ravaged foods or imparted speek.

 Children had basic needs. Food. Shelter. The little travelers settled when this criterion was met. They did marks on the walls, warned others of dangers, told their stories. The things they had seen, the other children they met. The pack they lost.

 Sighing, the corners of his lips turned down. The Thin Man spun from the forlorn spot of the wall, only suspending his impulse to flicker out for a scarce instant to peer at the far end of the aisle. In the corner and a little hidden by an eroded, tilted metal rack, the branches extend from the hollowed clothing slumped to the tiled floor.

 The feet have already regressed into the pant legs, the visible hands are an ashen shade. Nothing was left of the head, excluding the appendages stretching out of the shirt collar and high into the ceiling crease above. A distinct block shape formed, with a veiny network webbed across the surface.

 In a glimmer he was gone, leaving those lonely messages to speek to open air and the vacant store aisles.

 Returning to the skyrise was uneventful, as it was while he was alone. No delays or stutters, always moving and never stopping – not for anything. Far better now that he was fully restored, and scarcely could recall how much of a drag it was when he first departed the Factory. He didn’t care to think of that period….

 The first area he checked post entering the residence, was the kitchen.

 Nothing is out of place. The Thin Man set the sack of procured items on the dining table and went to the cupboards, opening one after the other to check if supplies had been tampered with. He knows damn well this is pointless, but he was driven to confirm this kitchen was left untouched.

 He’ll give the boy the benefit of the doubt. Often Mono went off and ransacked some other kitchen. That did happen. However, the boy was always inclined to some pilfering of the shelter’s kitchen, before he went off exploring. Even now, the child was present in the abode. Had he not ventured out at all?

 Enough of this. The lights in the kitchen dim as he flashed, tempering the crawl of time and moving through the corridors. He traced the source of the transmission, reaching the same room the child secluded to. Once he solidified in the room, the somber gleam returned to its normal radiance.

 The food he deposited beside the wall’s break went untouched. This child! What the Tower? Was he still alive?

 “Child! What are you mad about?”

 Somewhere within the wall, muffled scratching and a thump. Good. He was alive.

 “You come out this instant, or so help me. I’ll tear down this wall!” The bulb above flashed and crackled. “C̵͍͌H̴̪̔İ̷̭L̶̫͆D̸̹̆!̷̜̓” And like that the, the dome light in the ceiling burst sending shards of glass and cinder over his hat. The Thin Man took a step back and glanced up.

 Reel it back a bit. This wasn’t helping.

 “Mono.” He rubbed a hand to his face. “You have to come out. You must eat something. At least, let me know that you are alright, and then, I will go away. Child? Please.”

 For a very long time he stands, waiting. The static hummed across the walls, pressing at his thoughts. It was time for him to go, then? That would be for the best. If he left—

 Before he could flicker, movement pricked at the edge of the cranny. The paper bag inched out, but not entirely into view. He was granted the featureless backside of the paper mask, the wearer downcast.

 “It never fails, I do something which agitates you,” he crackled. “Then you scurry off and hide in a little hole, with all your thoughts and doubts crammed into your head.” He shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “While that leaves me to puzzle through and figure out how to appease your… fit. You are… bewildering.” He reached into his pocket and produced one of the atrocious plushy toys. He stooped and set the insulting thing beside the untouched – insect riddled – meat foods. “You are quite content to isolate away, feeling morose. Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it? Hmm?” He braced an arm across his thigh and bowed low, the already shrouded crack pitched into a bleak veil of black.

 “Hurt’u.” The word(s) was so faint and graveled, he almost missed the speek. The Thin Man dipped down further. “D’nt mean. S’not th’ght better. Was bad. Shu’dnt. Hurt'oo. Hurt.” The boy fiddled with the edge of his coat, while he stayed huddled, as if expecting a fierce reprimand.

 What… was he talking about?

 “Did you have a dream haunt?” he groused. “Is that what this is all about?” The paper bag swiveled.

 “Mon’ser. Tri'd take. Aam’made worse. Was pro’tek. Made n’danger.” The little heap of coat swayed with a sigh, or gasp. “Was t’hurt. N’mon’ster. E’smashed. Break’u. D’nt… n’left. Ran’way. D’ran. Not right. Th's danger. M'hurt You. Was bad.”

 At first the Thin Man hung there baffled by what the boy was trying to convey. Where to begin? How did this make him an exiled wreck? He worked to put together the words, and unthread the pattern. Monster. Hurt. Break. It comes together, what happened on the stairway some while back. That event lay far from his thoughts, the encounter so fleeting.

 “Are you hurt?” The boy had been so spry following the stairway incident, he didn’t think to check him over.

 Regardless, the paper bag shifted in an indolent no. “Y’hurt. Did th’t. S'gone. Made go. I... hurt.”

 Two wires connected under his hat, and it clicked. “Me? Hurt?” The shape dipped back into the shroud of the crack.

 “Child. Get out here and take a look at me.” When the boy did not emerge, the Thin Man reached to the cranny and tapped the floorboard with a finger. “Here. Right now. I won’t repeat myself.” It takes more coaxing, another tap of his finger. “G̷͜ě̴̬t̴̟̎ ̸̺̿O̴̘̚v̴͚͘e̵̛͜r̴̬̂ ̸̭̇H̴̝͌ȅ̵̩r̴̦̈́ë̴̬́.̷̱̿” It is impossible to do anything with this child.

 Finally, the paper bag and the shoulders of its wearer brave the outside air. Only at the threshold of his hideaway. The child winced but didn’t struggle when the Thin Man snared his elbow, and hauled him closer to his knee.

 “Look at me, Mono. Look at me. Do I look hurt?” The Thin Man had to fit a finger beneath the boys chin to break him from his personal raincloud. The vacant cutout holes of the paper mask gawked up at him, but the child uttered no response.

 “Nothing in this world can harm me,” the Thin Man stated. “I have no fears, no enemy can touch me. I bow to no threat.” Great nor small, he credited, unspoken of course.

 The Thin Man never cowered in the face of his younger-self, he simply accepted that… his fate was right. It was his time to rest, while the younger-one took on the role left empty and waiting. Given how it all turned out, it might’ve been the kindest act his own man in the hat left to him.

 Never lied to him. Failed in stealing him away from his calamitous fate. Didn’t do… anything. Nothing could have been done to prepare him. The man in the hat merely surrendered, and let him discover himself. However bitter that turned out.

 The child Mono gaped at him with that ridiculous paper bag, tilted. He reached his free hand over to the Thin Man’s grip, on his elbow, and petted his knuckle.

 With a brisk inhale, the Thin Man stole the hand away to rub at his face. “You haven’t eaten. Let’s take care of that.” When he flickered into standing, the boy recoiled a step. “Cease that nonsense, child. I am not hurt. You can clearly see that.”

 The child picked his way around the insects and pulled up the meat stick thing. He kept the blank stare of the paper bag fixed on the Thin Man, as he tore off a few chunks of the food item. “Y’r okay?”

 “Yes,” he rustled. “The perils of the city are minor inconveniences to me. Trifles easy enough to ignore.” He observed, as Mono shuffled in closer and crouched down beside his shoe.

 “S’coz tol.”

 That was beside the point, but he wasn’t about to go off on a fresh tirade. The boy hiked the paper bag up to his nose and ate, while keeping that unwavering line of sight on him. It barely occurred to him the age of that food, sitting out of its packaging. Crawling with vermin.

 He grimaced when, as expected, the child held up a chunk of the stale food. The face only partially hidden, held the most deliberate expression. With a diluted stutter, the Thin Man leaned down and took the offering. “I’ll try that later,” he muttered. “Now you. Let’s find something more palatable.” He slipped the bit of food into his breast pocket and began to move away. Barely two steps, and the child was grabbing at his ankles.

 “Go? S’where?” he rasped. "Not n’stay. W'leave.”

 He was forced to halt, or he would tramper the boy. “Kitchen,” he hissed. “I’m going to the kitchen. That food is old.” He scooted the boy aside with his shoe and moved, unobstructed. The child was still grabbing at his ankle as he tried to walk; all he could do to mitigate this was glitch ahead, try and keep a few sprints beyond the boy.

 For the longest time he couldn’t get this child out of a wall, now he can’t get that same boy away from his heels. This kid was driving him up a wall.

 “Move. Mono. Shoo.” He began with checking the upper cabinets, since the child was so insistent on being right in the way of all the doors. Where were those biscuits? “Here. HereHereHere.” While unsupervised, Mono clambered onto the countertop and was hauling open cabinets. “Food. Take this. It’s right here.” A cacophony of dishware tumbled out of the cabinet when a stack of cups flipped off the shelf. The Thin Man glitched and sputtered.

 Mono lunged off the counter and ducked into a cupboard.

 Well, that didn’t last long.

 The Thin Man dropped the food package on the counter and leaned back, knocking his hat askew as he settled against the cabinets. He looked over at the door of the cupboard, shut tight. This was hardwired, he had to remind himself. How long he would hide away this time? That, he didn’t know. He was a smidgen disappointed, but it was largely disheartening.

 A murmur hissed from the cupboard as it edged open, and the paper bag peeked out. He watched the boy ‘sneak’ out and grab one of the cups off the floor. The selected cup was hefted up to the tall thin man.

 In most of these buildings, the water lines remained in some functioning order. The city was perpetually operational, managed by aimless caretakers with little to no conscious thought to the tasks they sustained. Just as the electricity ran through the separate grids of the districts, not that the televisions needed electricity to fulfill their purpose.

 After filling the cup with clean water, he returned it to the boy. Resolved to stay out of the way, the Thin Man clicked over to the table. He took a seat across from the provision sack left there and rummaged through his coat. The boy aligned with his most essential task, began poking through the cupboards and pulling out packages. The Thin Man tucked a cigarette between his lips and slouched on the tables surface.

 From his patrol, he held a general idea of the course to take. The route was safest, but it might test the child’s aptitude with his powers. Unless the boy was suddenly receptive to assistance – exclude getting corralled in an imploding building – the child was uncooperative in all situations. Stubborn little thing….

 A package of food smacked the tables surface.

 He puffed smoke, observing as the boy hefted himself off the chair. The child just about tackled the wrapped food thing and shoved it across the tabletop, tearing at the waxy coating as he went. The Thin Man slipped the arm on the table away, while Mono scooted closer.

 “I don’t have an interest in that,” he muttered. When he was forced to lean back due to proximity of the child, he reached over to the bag and shuffled through for one of the books. Mono merely watched him, paper bag perched precariously on his brow as he munched on whatever he finally picked out.

 “Sure y’okay?” Mono mumbled, through food.

 The Thin Man worked at peeling pages apart. The book was completely dry, but the sheets remained adhered like glue and difficult to work with. Some of the marks remained comprehensible, unless the damaged paper tore.

 “Yes. I’ve told you this. Why do you persist to ravel that subject?” And now the child was sneaking to the edge of the table. Towards him.

 “Wuz hit,” he whispered, as if he was answering himself. “Forg’t check.”

 He raised a finger to Mono’s chest and pushed him back. Sort of. “No. You forget to take care of yourself. I have a not for those woes.” He set the book aside and rubbed at his eyes. This unyielding child.

 Upon the moment of his inattention, the child evaded his hand and leapt onto his thigh. “Child! Get O̴̹̅f̵̢͒f̶̙͒ ̴̙͘M̵̻̆ê̵̞!̷͎͊” He latched onto the boy and nearly shot to his feet in a glitchy shadow, but restrained himself. Though he tugged and protested, the child more or less managed to get his arms snagged onto his suit. More or less. Sort of.

 Mono yowled and held tighter to the thread. “How sure?” He wasn’t letting go. Somehow, he managed to get his toes locked in.

 “Would you quit with that? Here. Eat something.” The Thin Man tried the tactic of releasing the boy in favor of grabbing a piece of the food. When he offered that to the child, it appeared to redirect his one-track mind. Mono accepted the morsel and plopped right down on his lap.

 “B’t sure? How tell?” The child tipped his paper bag up his face and peered up at the Thin Man. He shoved the food to his face and gnawed at it.

 “I took care of it. That’s how.” Scarcely, he did recall that the child should have the capability to mend his own injuries with minimal effort, but had yet to display that capacity. He had no more need for mending wounds. For the child he was tempted to try, yet he was not confident he wouldn’t… do more harm. As before.

 “No more of this. You have more pressing concerns.” With the child preoccupied with eating, it was easy to pluck him up and set him back by his food. “You come first. You must eat and take better care of you. Otherwise… how will you be able to make sure I’m looked after?”

 Mono drew his knees up as he ate his food, still watching. Maddening little doting hen. At last, the child appeared mollified and was fixed on his task. Once again, the Thin Man reached to the ratty makeshift sack and brought out a spare food container.

 “When you have recuperated adequately, we do have a ways to go.” It was probably jam, or food paste. He didn’t bother reading labels, Mono ate anything. It was always important to make certain the items the child took interest in were edible. That was not so much of an issue, if Mono was kept fed.

 The Thin Man exhaled smoke and took up the book he neglected. Before he settled in, he scooted a ways back from the table. Though realistically nothing would stop that boy, save for aimlessly wandering. He resumed picking at the pages, working to ignore the flat stare drilling into him.

 At some point the Thin Man became lost in a daze, became detached from his surroundings; not quite reading but not expelled from the material. The literature didn’t provide substance, but he was not disconnected from absorbing sentence upon sentence into a blur of intangible conjectures and syllables. He missed the child drop off the table and scurrying over to him. Not until the little tugging worked up the side of his shin. He suppressed a sigh, but let it be. When Mono fell asleep, he could go… do some more investigating. When they began anew, he might chide himself for not exploring the constructed course more thoroughly.

 The child climbed over his knee and scooted to his side, where he curled up and leaned against his coat. Mono just stared up, through the vacant cutouts of his paper mask. Just staring. The Thin Man did his best to ignore it and set a hand over the boy. It does surprise him that Mono doesn’t go ballistic and abandon completely… the child doesn’t react at all. That does unnerve him. Hopefully, this isn’t a new quirk; he could scarcely tolerate the faraway watchful eyes cloaked by patches of shades. He always suspected the child did that on P̶͓̅u̸͇͂r̵̲͆ṗ̸͔o̷͓͒ṡ̴̨e̴̜͋.̴͍̅

 While the child was fed and pacified, he won’t bother. The Thin Man is content to leave Mono to recover in peace, he appeared to have torn himself up over this unfounded anxiety. Didn’t trust him, wouldn’t listen. It was no shock the child didn’t understand anything. He did not look forward to moving on, but it would be for the best. Mono didn’t appear to have the tenacity to keep this up.

Next

[thefoulbeast]

Monstrum Malum (Evil Monster)

It’s finally october!! U know what that means!! Aoextober!! I’ve been waiting to be able to post this hahhhahahaa… some good ole soft horror in the spirit of the month of scary… I’ll also put it up on ao3 soon…

Characters: Todou Saburota, That demon he had at first, Todou Homare (mentioned). Contents: Violence & gore, monsters, memory manipulation, surrealism (or is it derealisation? basically we got some weird stuff going on), elements of horror. Rating: Teen & up. Word count: 2 888.

__________

It’s all a little fuzzy, this far back in his memories…

According to family tradition, Saburota receives his temptaint at ten years old. It’s scary beyond belief – the sudden grotesque presences that await him at every turn.

There’s a thick black snake on the teacher’s desk that watches him, a cat with two heads and three tails and no skin that doesn’t meow as much as it yells, spidery, shadowy hands that wave at him from dark corners and alleyways, always beckoning closer in silent invitation.

The horrible sounds of screaming and crying at night he can’t drown out no matter what he tries to do.

He doesn’t understand how his father and brothers and – everyone, really- can just ignore it all, can just pretend like it’s all normal and okay.

Though, he supposes it’s not too implausible – their ability to ignore things is quite remarkable. One time they pretended he didn’t exist for a whole week – and honestly, he’d been questioning his existence himself by the end of it.

But the problem is these… demons. These ghosts and spectres that follow him and distract him and terrify him.

Saburota tries to focus on the page in front of him – a test in maths that he’s writing in pencil because his pen is bleeding red blood – an ever-growing puddle over the surface of his desk that never reaches his papers and drips over the edge with quiet plips.

The numbers in the problems tilt and tumble and his hands are tingling. But if he focuses just so- if he can keep them in his mind long enough, he can do this.

Pit-pat… Pit-pat…

The blood drips steadily down onto the floor. No one else notices it.

–

“Oh, come now! You’ll get used to it,” his aunt says when she sees him flinch back from a dark mass that covers the floor like a living carpet, undulating and scintillating and breathing.

She walks right over it, and the black sticks to the heels of her shiny beige pumps like tar – but she doesn’t even seem to notice-

“Come on, Saburota, let’s go,” she pulls him by the arm, stronger than he can dig his heels into the ground. The black thing is unpleasantly soft under his feet. He feels it writhe.

“Don’t be so obstinate, we’ll be late to the opera!” she huffs, exasperated, “Honestly, you’d think a boy your age would have some manners.”

The black clings to the bottom of their soles without end even after they’ve crossed all of it and are out on the street, spreading out from every point of contact their shoes make with the ground, melting together to form a winding, snakelike path.

“What show are we going to see?” he asks cautiously, trying to distract himself.

“Three dead men and the devil, of course” she answers haughtily, “Why, Saburota, it’s as if you’re trying to irritate me on purpose! You’re the one who wanted to go!”

He did?

“Oh, I remember now!” he says, but it’s a lie, it’s his mouth moving on its own, “I hope it’s as good as the reviews promise!” he says again, a giddy edge to the words- but they’re not his words.

“It will be,” his aunt answers with a mysterious sort of smile, her hand tightening around his wrist.

–

Saburota’s hiding under the bed, curled up in the dark. It seems like no matter how much he shrinks down; he still feels watched, still feels threatened. Feels like he’s not alone, like there’s something else inside him.

The door opens and footsteps make their way over to the bed – but they’re sharp, like knocking wood on wood, and so loud.

Saburota holds his breath when hooves come into view right in front of him. Fear is like a bird trapped in his chest, raging desperately against the bars of his ribs.

Whatever it is climbs up on his bed with an ominous sqeak of the springs and a decidedly animal huff.

“Oh, you’re already in bed, honey?” the voice of his mother speaks from the doorway. She all but floats over soundlessly. Her skin is deathly pale and dry beneath the hem of her nightgown.

“I’m scared, mommy,” the thing says in a voice that’s nowhere near Saburota’s own. “I think there’s a monster under my bed.”

“Monsters don’t exist, silly,” she coos, “but I’ll look and make sure for you, alright?”

She gets down on all fours and peers beneath the bed. Her unseeing eyes look straight at and through Saburota. Her face is as pale and bloodless as her feet and hands, a greenish-blueish tinge to her lips and eyelids.

“There’s nothing here, honey,” she says in her beautiful, sonorous voice. Her smile reveals her teeth that look much longer and sharper now that the gums have dried out and shrunk back.

Then she rises again and says, “Now, will you be a good boy and sleep? We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to be ready to do what has to be done.” She kisses the thing sweetly goodnight before leaving, footsteps as soundless as when she entered. The door closes behind her, and so disappears that last bit of illumination the room had.

The darkness left behind feels like it’s eating Saburota whole, encompassing him in a tight and claustrophobic space. He reaches out to prove the feeling wrong, but the darkness is smooth and solid against his hand, pushing up against it with incrementally increasing force.

“You don’t have much time left down there, do you?” the thing up on the bed asks, soft and sleepy. It yawns. “You know, God can’t see you anymore, and neither can most other things.”

The darkness pushes up against his skin, too tight to move, too tight to breathe.

–

They’re in the main hall. A soft record plays in the background, a gentle but somber croon accompanied by a saxophone and a cello.

“You know they don’t exist,” the shadow sitting across from Saburota at the dinner table says, “right?”

It’s gesturing at his family, where they’re chatting amongst themselves as they eat. At the other, farther end of the table – it’s farther than usual. The table is as long as the room as opposed to taking up just the center.

There are so many empty seats. So many set plates, untouched. Like there’s supposed to be a banquet, but no one’s shown up.

Saburota stares down at his plate. The soup is black and thick, and there’s the smooth off-white surface of a bone peeking out from beneath the surface.

He’s not particularly hungry.

“You’re wrong,” he tells the shadow quietly ad he pushes the plate away, and the damn thing laughs in response. It’s fuzzy and translucent, and smears in Saburota’s vision when it moves.

“Oh, my bad!” the shadow chortles and picks up a knife, and twirls it around the fingers of its hand; the gleaming facets of the blade catch red and orange lights from some strange and unknown source, “You’re the one who doesn’t exist, I meant to say. Easy mistake to make.”

Saburota feels goose bumps break out over his body. A cold gust of wind whistles over the edge of his collar, ruffling the back of his hair. He places one of his palms protectively over his nape, feeling unsafe.

The room is colourless now, and his family sounds all muffled - and the shadow is gone. He shivers, then takes a fortifying breath and reaches for the spoon again, hand trembling minutely.

Saburota lifts a spoonful of the simple noodle soup to his mouth hesitantly. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong with it, but… he’s just got this nagging worry that something isn’t right.

–

“I see right through you,” the creature says hotly in his ear, “you’re little more than smoke - a miasma leaking through the cracks of the skin you wear.”

Saburota stares at it through the mirror. It’s taller than him, wider than him, has horns like an ibex and hands like eagle claws, poised up in the air, talons glinting menacingly.

“Poor little Saburota,” it hisses, leaning in even closer, snake tongue peeking through its teeth on the ‘s’. “So damaged and twisted that no one could ever like you. You empty little puppet, you pathetic fucking piece of shit.”

Saburota shrugs at its words. They sound about right. It’s what he’s heard all his life, what he’s thought all his life. A truth confirmed over and over.

“You should bite them back for making you,” it says with a beastly leer, talons wrapping around his shoulders and digging in, drawing blood in small beads, “Make them regret your existence. Teach them what it means to hurt. You want to. You need to. I’ll help you. I’ll make you strong, I’ll make you dangerous.”

There’s a certain desperation to the thing’s words.

“Maybe someday,” Saburota murmurs, stepping forwards - out of the creature’s embrace towards the sink, heedless of the shallow wounds left behind by the drag of its talons. He needs to brush his teeth and get to bed.

The bathroom darkens and the walls and floor wobble dangerously, like light broken on the edge of water, like matter passing through the planes of a prism and coming out wrong.

“You’re ready,” the creature wails, upset at his coy evasions of what needs to be done.

“No, I’m-“ he stammers. God, everything here looks so fake it makes him nauseous. He needs to- he needs to set himself straight. Needs to recalibrate.

”I’m not ripe yet,” Saburota says gently, cautiously - looking at the beast without turning, eyes dark like the sky on the night of a new moon.

–

Father’s saying something to him. He looks angry. He’s gesticulating like crazy.

Saburota can’t hear it. The sound’s muted. Pure silence.

No, not pure… there’s something whispering in his ear. It takes a moment for him to understand what it’s saying…

Saburota feels a smile spread out over his face at the promises of violence, bloodshed, nasty ugly retribution-

The world seems sharper somehow. Like it’s come into focus after being blurry and vague for his entire life.

Saburota looks at his hands. He’s got claws – mean, nasty looking things, the kind that maim and rip and rend. When did that happen?

The little whispering voice giggles in his ear. I’ll give you this. I’ll give you this if you just let me-

–

“I’ve been cultivating you for years,” the thing says, looking down at him from its full height. The creature is menacing, attention catching, terrifying. “You’d be nothing without me. You’d be small and powerless and pathetic.”

Its arms wrap around his shoulders covetously, possessively. The talons sink into the flesh of Saburota’s deltoids like a butcher’s knife sinks into a hunk of meat.

“You’re all mine,” the thing whispers, opening its maw to reveal row upon dizzying row of teeth arranged in a beautiful rosette. Saburota touches a tooth and pricks his finger.

Blood red. Drops on the floor. He smears them with the toe of his shoe and suddenly realises.

Oh, what a clever thing. Had him really going for a while.

“No, I’m not,” Saburota says, something in his voice dark but… whistful and dreamy. “You did nice this time, I’ll give you that. Too bad you’re so slow with it all,” he says, and reality shifts.

Well, the not-reality shifts. Saburota’s holding the thing – a squirming little creature with a long leathery tail, smaller than ever and…

And perfect for eating.

–

He’s not afraid anymore. Despite the thing’s attempts – this particular memory remains unchanged, remains his fully. So far.

There’s carnage all around – his family, the house staff – mutilated sacks of meat, strewn about carelessly, all carved up and bled out.

Saburota can taste it – the metallic tang of something raw clinging to his palate, the edges of his teeth.

He knows what he did. He knows how he did it. But… he’d been too excited, too in-the-moment about it. It’s all a red haze in hindsight.

“Well, this was easier than expected,” he says, all light and happy and unburdened.

“You finally did it,” Homare says as she watches him from the top of the stairs, her face a blank mask.

“You’re free now,” Saburota says with a wide grin, “This power could be yours too, Homare.”

It slips off his tongue like a well-oiled phrase. This isn’t the first time he’s said this.

“Why won’t you let me out, Saburota?” she says in someone else’s voice. Shadows cling to her, making her larger and darker than what she is. The beast is here again, messing with his mind and senses. “Why must you deny me so? You can’t hold me down forever. I will claw my way out.”

The house is dark and crawling with black shapes and bugs the size of rats. Saburota feels his mood sour. That’s not right, that’s not what she really said.

Homare’s walking down the stairs towards him, heedless of the gore she steps in, looking at him like she wants him to burst open like an over-tense bulla.

“Kill yourself, Saburota, you worthless fucking heap,” the thing says, even if it’s Homare’s lips that move, “Getting all cocky and full of yourself. You will regret it. I will make you regret it.”

Saburota smiles lazily, “You’re just throwing a tantrum because I’m stronger than you. Tsk-tsk. You’d think that demons had more class than that.”

Saburota flicks open the zippo in his hand, and the smell of buthane hits him above the wet smell of fresh guts. His hands are shaking, his heart is racing. There’s a cacophonous screaming in his head above it all.

“Let me out, Saburota,” the thing says through Homare’s lips, low and thunderous and so angry, “Let me out and let me in for real.”

Saburota flicks the wheel and sparks the flame, looking right into Homare’s eyes where he sees it looking at him.

He drops the zippo carelessly, ignoring the beast’s words. This – all of this is his.

And he’s going to burn it all down.

–

Saburota wakes with a jolt that has the water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He’d dozed off again.

The nightmarish pictures of his dream fizzle out into the subconscious part of his brain. The phantasms are creeping upwards again, seeking to dig their claws into his more recent memories.

He sighs tiredly, rubbing a palm over his face. It had taken him too long to notice. Next time the demon might get him for good. He rests a palm over his stomach where he feels it like a hot, familiar weight in his gut. So small, so stubborn, so bothersome.

Saburota can’t remember his childhood clearly anymore, not the way it really was. His recollections are all twisted and maimed, cut up and pasted together into tid-bit horror stories and fantastical exaggerations, much like the dream had been.

It comes with being a demon eater. There’s a certain cost, a sacrifice he has to make in the form of his memories and occasionally, his personality. One can only hold on to darkness for so long until it grabs back.

Saburota barely ever sleeps anymore. Whenever he dreams, the distortions get worse and feel more real.

Realistically, he knows there wasn’t a dead man lying on the table and singing at Homare’s tenth birthday party… he knows that his mother died in childbirth when she had her last pregnancy, that he’d never heard her voice and had only ever seen her in pictures… but he can remember these delusions so very vividly it’s kind of scary.

“Your brain’s rotting…” He tells himself in a low voice. Then, he chuckles,” Heh, who knows if what’s left is even you anymore…” He pauses, moving his hand through the water, watching it slosh against the sides of the tub.

He’s awake, sure, but he still feels like he’s dreaming, like this isn’t reality. Another chuckle, a little more self-deprecating, “Good thing that won’t matter soon enough.”

Saburota sinks lower into the water so that his nose just above the surface. The water’s lukewarm now, so it doesn’t seep into his bones and muscles the way he wishes it would.

He’ll get out in a minute and get dressed and do things, but for now he just… ruminates. On what he is. On what he’s done.

He doesn’t regret his choices, but… sometimes he wonders what life would be like if he was… more normal. If he’d never clashed with his family the way he had… if he’d just…

Well, whatever. Those thoughts don’t lead anywhere.

He’s made it this far – that’s the only thing that matters. He just needs to pull through and do his part in getting the phoenix for the Illuminati. He’s been planning it for years now, sowing doubt and trust in the right places, and it’s finally so close he can taste it.

That’s his purpose now. That’s what’s important. He has a goal and a purpose, and he is needed. With that much, he’s satisfied.

As long as he does what he needs to do for the Illuminati, for The Commander, what happens to him afterwards doesn’t really matter…

[iturbide]

more smoke and mirrors please i am WEAK for pokemon aus just general world building or even interactions i would like to see more thank you

Look Smoke and Mirrors is going to be a romp.  It’s definitely going to take a custom setting (one I fully intend to base on the Awakening map because I can), but I’ve been working out a lot of little details here and there so why not start with some setting and worldbuilding:

The world itself is a fusion of the mainline Pokemon world tech and Awakening’s overall map routes and biomes.  This means that we have modern tech like video phones, Pokemon Centers, stylish pokeballs, and all manner of curative items; while the setting takes us through familiar towns and cities updated to match while retaining a sense of their original flair.  For instance:

Southtown is a quiet hamlet in the south of the Archanea region.  It’s basically the classic ‘first town checkpoint,’ like Cherrygrove from Gen2: it has a Pokemon Center and Pokemart, but not much else besides the common businesses and residences.

Ylisstol is a bustling city near the heart of the region and sports all manner of places to visit and specialties to sample.  Similar to Castelia from Gen5 or Lumiose from Gen6, it’s big and sprawling and has all kinds of things to check out, including a Pokemon gym.

Arena Ferox is the heart of the icy northern reaches, and is known to be an excellent place to find a challenge.  The main attraction for most people is the rivalry between the eastern and western dojos, who duke it out tournament style once a year for the right to be called the Gym (akin to Saffron in Gen1 with its gym and dojo).

Plegia is the jewel of the desert, an ancient city that’s endured through time and adopted modern touches on top of their long-standing cultural traditions.  It also boasts an outdoor gym in an ancient courtyard, which gives trainers a little taste of history while they fight for their badges.

The Longfort is an ancient but beautifully maintained wall separating the northern reaches of the region from the southern ones.  While there are stories of it repelling invaders in the past, it’s mostly a glorified gatehouse now, though the wilds on either side are full of pokemon to study or capture.

Similarly, the Border Pass in the mountains between the eastern and western portions of the region also acts as a gatehouse.  It has its own curious history, mostly involving how historically treacherous the Pass could be, but in the present day the way is much more hospitable so long as people keep to the main route (though there are definitely secret areas to be accessed via special moves).  Breakneck Pass in the eastern region is rather similar, though it leads to a more out-of-the-way destination rather than being a gateway to another part of the region.

Beyond the Border Pass is a large desert region, with a thriving oasis town near its heart.  Many pokemon adapted for desert conditions (Sandile, Maractus, etc) can be found on the way there, of course.

The Dragon’s Table is a historic treasure, a tower dating back to ancient times.  It’s beautifully preserved, though, and plays host to a history museum and library in the present day, where visitors are free to explore for a nominal fee.

Mt Prism and Origin Peak are somewhat out-of-the-way for most people and offer a tremendous challenge for any trainer or researcher daring enough to brave them.  Powerful pokemon roam both the outer reaches and the inner caves -- and some people even claim to have seen legends roaming well beyond where most travelers normally venture.

The Midmire is a particularly stunning natural geologic feature, giant spires of obsidian rising up out of the earth.  No one’s quite sure how they came to exist or endure, but they are a very popular landmark...though they have an odd reputation, too: many swear they feel they’re being watched while they make their way through, even when they’re entirely alone...

There are no royal lineages in the world at present, though there’s evidence of their past prevalence.  Technically, Chrom does still bear a Brand, but its significance has been replaced in the present society: where it was once associated with a royal lineage, now it’s associated with a prominent business where his father is CEO.  Chrom himself, though, has no interest in carrying on the family business, and instead spends his time with the local Pokemon Ranger group that he and all his friends are part of.

Recently, though, Chrom decided to try his hand at Pokemon battling on a broader scale and decided to give the gym circuit a try -- something his father endorsed because it would offer good publicity and press if Chrom did well.  So off Chrom went, taking his sister Lissa (a medic in training, following in her big sister Emmeryn’s footsteps) and Frederick (the bodyguard appointed by his father -- no, he did not have any say in whether Frederick came or not).  Very soon after starting out, they happen across a pair of white-haired strangers asleep just off the main route outside of Southtown.  The young man and woman, who appear to be fraternal twins, introduce themselves as Robin and Reflet (though Robin does all of the talking -- as she explains, her brother’s just shy), and when Chrom invites them to come along, they agree since they’re just out exploring for the first time.

From the outset, Chrom’s Lucario seems intensely interested in Reflet (to the point of impoliteness -- Chrom has to scold him at least once because he just gets very up in Reflet’s face trying to figure him out).  Prince can sense that Reflet has a very strange aura unlike any human he’s ever seen, but he can’t put his paw on exactly what the oddity is...until they’re going through the forest separating Southtown from Ylisstol and get attacked by an aggressive wild pokemon.  Reflet lunges to protect Robin, and when the dust clears it’s not twins standing there, but a young woman and a Zoroark who swiftly chases off the opponent; unfortunately, the unexpected attack did some significant damage (mostly in the form of poison), and Robin promises to explain everything once she’s taken care of the pokemon -- something Lissa delightedly helps out with.

As it turns out, Reflet is and always has been a pokemon: he was born a Zorua and hatched around the same time Robin was born.  They’ve been inseparable all their lives, they grew up together, and since Zorua is known for its illusions, Reflet swiftly adopted a human guise in something like Robin’s image so they could go everywhere together.  The act got even easier once he evolved into a Zoroark, since he became bipedal (though learning to use utensils took some work), and since he’s not big on fighting and there are places that won’t allow known pokemon in outside their pokeballs, they decided to travel as “brother and sister” rather than “trainer and partner.” 

(Prince is feeling very smug about catching on about the aura, of course, even if he didn’t know what a Zoroark’s aura looked like before and therefore couldn’t place it).

[velvetinewitch]

fluffcember: sunrise, ellalion

@cheesecake-angel​, here’s your ellalion fluff! i loved writing them, thank you for forcing me to. also thanks to @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword,  @raiswanson, and @siarven for hosting fluffcember!!  find a list of characters to send a ship (platonic/romantic) in for fluffcember here!

Ella wakes her early that morning, or late that night. She shakes Ara's shoulders until the writer shifts, her dream-state fleeing her. She mutters groggily under her breath, her eyes flickering half-open to the pale blue hues of their room. 

"I wanna show you something," Ella whispers, strands of hair spilling into Ara's space, voice soft as to not disturb the silence of the atmosphere. "You're going to have to close your eyes, just not yet." 

Ara searches blearily for the blaring red alarm clock and scowls at the low numbers. She curses Ella, but the girl just lets out a breathy chuckle. She reaches for Ara's hand, tugging her from the sheets despite her complaints. 

"Do I have to get dressed?" Ara asks. She puts her palm to her mouth to muffle the yawn.

Ella examines her outfit, the fluffy, leopard-print pajama pants and the warm Christmas shirt (despite it being July). Despite the heat of the night, Ara bundles up to keep from freezing. Ella, who had fallen asleep against their fridge, had always found it ironic. Her magic was fire, but it did nothing to keep Ara warm. "You're fine," she decides. Her brow wrinkles. "Did you really sleep in your shoes?"

Ara stifles a giggle at her distaste and lets her lead her out of their dorm. The lights in the hallways are dim, glowing just enough for them to see the floor and walls. Ella speedruns down the stairs, her feet loud and heavy on the carpet. Ara lags behind, slow with a resting terror that her tired mind will abandon her body and let her trip. Before they step outside, Ella reaches for Ara's hand, lifting it to cover her eyes. Ara laughs at the action, but holds her fingers there, squashed against her nose, no rays seeping in through the cracks. Ella takes her other hand and uses it to guide her, pulling her forward through the doors and into the outside world. It isn't freezing, or even chilly, just a soothing gesture of the summer temperature. The dew on the grass soaks into her shoes and the bottoms of the pajamas as they walk. When Ara whines to Ella, Ella offers to carry her. It's almost tempting, if not for the last time they'd attempted that. They mutually agree that Ella, while she may be a junior Olympic athlete, doesn't need to practice any weightlifting. For their safety.

The path Ella leads Ara down is familiar, even without her vision. The small breach in the magical Boundary sits beside a large Willow tree that had grown into the carved out mountainside. Among the roots, a hole breaks through, steep and dirty. Ella helps Ara down it, their feet sliding a little as they break out of the campus territory. Generations of students before them have dug through the mountain, casting spells to hold the ground in place, setting infinitely burning candles in coves along the walls. Now, a semblance of the brightness break through Ara's skin, brilliant red. The echo of their footsteps bounces along the walls.

As they walk, they talk. It isn't a small, thinly knit conversation of formalities. They'd agreed, when their friendship first began, that conversations like those would be worthless to them. Instead, Ara asks what her childhood home looked like- tall columns, white pristine walls, rugs made of silks beneath Ella's bare feet while her butler chased her. Ella listens to Ara reminisce of the stories her mother would tell her before bed, poetry and fairy tales about love of all kind. Even their kind of love, something strong, not quite romantic, but nothing like a simple friendship. Ella grins when Ara says this, threatens a kiss. Ara threatens a punch, but it's playful, and the laugh she earns is something that calms her.

Their destination is only just beyond the exit of the tunnel. Ara can't see it, but she can feel the dirt path beneath the soles of her feet, and the green trees are imprinted in her memory. The music of the wind plays in their leaves.

"Did you know the band kids enchanted the trees?" Ella asks.

"Really?"

"Rain told me,” Ella continues, sounding proud of herself for her insider knowledge. “If you listen hard enough, you can hear whatever song makes you happiest."

Ara strains her ears to hear it, and laughs when the sound of her mother's favorite radio song reaches her. Her smile must be telling because Ella squeezes her hand. The music is slowly joined by the hum of running water, and Ara knows they've reached the end of their journey. Ella pulls her forward towards the oasis, the spot in the center of the dense wood, where a stream leaking off the main waterfall travels to the edge of a higher set of cliffs and falls, forming their small shoal at its base. Sometimes, during the school year, kids will sneak down here at night, using their magic to change the landscapes. Once, Asrian stole the stars in the night sky and tucked them under its surface, the water rippling with opal constellations. Pallet and Kaden had tie-dyed it with their own magic once, transforming it into a sea of color. Sometimes, the hydrologic sciences kids visit, putting on a show with their ability to manipulate its shape. No student of Nyxivis has lived until they’ve experienced a floating ecosystem of glass.

Ella tugs her to the left, where Ara knows the ground curls inwards, a small indent behind the springs, where the water is a bit like a curtain. Magic, as always, prevents the water from splaying on you, and the sound of the water isn’t loud enough to be overpowering. Best of all, the view is gorgeous. Through that clear curtain is the serene water like a giant puddle, and past that is the cliff, and past that, the valley, a city of lights stretching before them. But Ara's eyes are still closed, her hand shielding her from that beauty, even as they duck into the cove and find a seat facing the distance.

"It'll be a few minutes," Ella says. She scooches closer to Ara, drawn to the warmth and the pressure of their touch. Ara waits impatiently for the time to come, cracking sarcastic jokes that make Ella reply just as dryly. Then, finally, Ella nudges her waist with her elbow, and gives Ara the okay.

It's the sunrise that meets her eyes when she pulls her hand away and blinks off the darkness. The suns beams, as it ascends, scatter in the falling water like prisms of fire. On the surface of the puddle below them dance the rays, flames of daybreak against the cooling pond. Ara feels her breath catch, her mind whirring to narrate the scene before her. “You could propose to me right here, and I’d say yes,” she says finally.

“Good,” Ella says, rummaging through her pocket. Ara startles, but Ella pulls out the ring without a box at all, holding it out to her casually. The cherry golden color glints in the light. “It’s a… non-romantic engagement ring. In a ‘no homo’ fashion.”

Ara laughs as she takes it, and if she’s crying, no one could blame her. “Fuck you, Ella,” she says with a sniffle. “I didn’t get you a ring.”

“I’m not sure that’s how this works, babe,” Ella grins, leaning into her further, playfully pushing her to the side with her shoulder. “Actually, I’m not really sure about this at all, it’s not exactly traditional.” Ara pushes back stronger, and it becomes a war, until they’re giggling and shoving and Ara tackles Ella into a wrestling match. With a shriek and a splash, they pull themselves through the curtain and into the shoal, letting that golden fire bathe them as they fight under the sunrise.

(saying this again lol) find a list of characters to send a ship (platonic/romantic) in for fluffcember here!

[irelise]

the yew tree 3.3a/3.4

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier to claim his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

Featuring mysteries, hidden agendas, and a whole heap of master/servant tropes.

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

part one and two now on ao3!

beginning of part 3)

Warnings for this part: Canon-typical violence and death Rating: M Word count: 2917 Notes: holy shit i’ve been so late with these updates, but the end is in sight! Next part is definitely the last, we only have two scenes left to go \o/

Shaw is waiting to spirit them away. He stands in the middle of the road, a tall dark figure idling by an automobile. Under Shaw’s watchful eye, Erik clambers into the driver’s seat while Shaw ushers Charles into the back, his voice dripping like honey as he fusses over Charles, all false solicitousness, and Erik grits his teeth and seethes quietly to himself.

The engine purrs to life under Erik’s touch and he spares a moment to admire the fine workmanship, knowing this journey may be their last moment of calm before all hell breaks loose. Before, he might not have particularly cared. Now, he takes the time to run his senses across the metal, enjoying its pleasant hum as he taps on the accelerator. The ink-dark countryside unfurls in front of him as he drives, and the journey would be perfectly tranquil if not for Shaw. In the rearview mirror, Erik can see him gathering Charles close. Shaw knows how to play the role of a doting lover; he leans in, mouth brushing against the shell of Charles’ ear as he murmurs something. Charles’ lashes flutter in response and Shaw smiles, arranging the two of them so that Charles’ head is pillowed against his shoulder, and Erik frowns at the way Charles just lets him, pliant as a little ragdoll. It isn’t long before Charles’ face goes slack with sleep, but Erik can see a small line of tension furrowing the space between his eyebrows, and he knows Charles is less at peace than he appears.

Still, nothing prepares Erik for the sudden whisper of Charles’ voice: Erik? Erik, can you hear me?

Erik’s fingers twitch violently on the steering wheel, shock flooding his mind. You’re in my head. Charles had never used his telepathy with him before. He thought Charles’ abilities would be weak from disuse, but the hint of Charles’ power brushing against his mind feels impossibly vast, deep and boundless as the sky at dusk.

Yes. Is that fine with you? We need to talk.

Of course. Perhaps he should be uneasy with a telepath rummaging around his head – certainly, he would never trust Emma in the same way – but right now, Charles’ powers are simply breathtaking.

He can feel Charles’ surprise colouring his mind, quickly followed by warm gratitude. Thank you.

Talk to me, is Shaw planning anything we need to know about?

The marriage ceremony will be carried out tonight. Afterwards… Erik can feel a chill creep through their connection, a gathering of dark clouds. He’ll consummate the marriage.

No!

Charles continues as if he had not heard the red-hot flare of denial. Within the week he’ll have secured the fortune. He plans to kill you after that, although he’s yet to work out the specifics. We were planning to fake my death so Uncle won’t have any reason to search for me; Shaw intends to stage an automobile accident. A rather explosive one, shall we say. The sort that leaves behind nothing but a corpse charred beyond identification.

Using my body, you mean. Well, it’s a sound plan. No reason we can’t turn it back around on Shaw.

Charles’ presence in his head goes pensive and thoughtful. No. No, I don’t see a reason to stage my death anymore. I can’t spend the rest of my life running from Uncle.

And Shaw?

What about him?

He needs to die, Charles, you know that.

…Yes. Yes, I know.

Erik thought he would feel triumphant at dragging the concession out of Charles, but instead he’s left strangely unsatisfied. So you’ll help me?

That was never in question. But I’m concerned about the potential fallout.

What do you mean?

Uncle’s research. I’m thinking about the best way to help our people. I think I may have a plan, but it would require me to step into the spotlight – and the last thing we need is for a bloody, brutal murder to be traced back to the two of us. If we must deal wi– if we must kill Shaw, then let’s do it in a manner that is more subtle.

I don’t care how we do it as long as we don’t leave him to walk free. What do you have in mind?

Shaw promised me something at the start of all this. A tool to escape my uncle for once and for all. Let’s see if he keeps his promise.

***

The wedding is a hurried, emotionless affair. The officiant rushes the couple through their vows, and when Shaw bends to kiss Charles, Charles merely blinks at him placidly even as Erik sees red. He calms only when Shaw steps away to sign the marriage document, especially when he feels Charles' presence slips into his head once more.

The officiant has been handsomely paid off, he won't ask any questions. Whatever Charles is feeling, it's locked tight away somewhere Erik can't reach; all he senses is a steel wall of resolve. After we're gone, he'll conveniently forget to file the marriage certificate.

Are you going to wipe all his memories of tonight?

Erik glimpses a flash of regret, then the walls rise up once more. I should, shouldn't I?

You know it has to be done. You won't cause any permanent damage, I've seen Emma Frost wipe memories all the time.

You're right, of course. I'll do what I have to. To keep us safe.

Charles' presence fades away again. The sham of a ceremony ends; Erik sees Shaw pull Charles to one side, and he strides forward just fast enough to catch the tail end of what Shaw is saying: "-not to use it so soon, hmm? We have a fun night ahead of us." Shaw’s thin lips twitch in a familiar, mocking smile, and light glints off his hand as he passes something to Charles.

"Ah, Erik!" Charles feigns surprise as he turns to face Erik, his eyes wide and blue. I have it, he says directly into Erik's head, even as he asks, "Is it time to leave already?"

"Just about, I'll go get the car ready. If you'll come with me, sir?"

"Yes, let's not delay. Sebastian?" Charles favours his newly-wed husband with a beaming smile, so brilliant and charming that Erik might have believed it if not for the lingering darkness that shadows Charles' thoughts.

Shaw, still playing the role of the perfect gentleman, offers Charles his arm with an indulgent chuckle. Charles takes it, the smile never leaving his face.

But as they walk past Erik, Charles - hesitates, a barely perceptible flinch. Certainly, Shaw doesn't notice. But Erik is attuned to Charles' moods after months spent by his side. Stick to the plan, he warns Charles, sending a pulse of reassurance even as he tries to stress the urgency of the situation.

Charles responds with a wordless brush of acknowledgement. A second later, Erik feels something small and hard pressed into his hand.

He turns away, hiding a grim smile.

***

Shaw promised me a wedding gift, you see. He doesn't want to murder me outright, but he thinks I'm not strong enough to survive the outside world. So he intends to give me a painless way out and claim the entire fortune once I'm gone.

And this gift is...?

A vial of opium, concentrated enough to kill. I'll be sorry to part with it. But Shaw is known to indulge in alcohol and opiates and the like - it won't be so strange if he accidentally imbibes too much during tonight's celebrations.

Replaying their earlier conversation in his mind, Erik stares down at the innocuous crystal vial resting in the palm of his hand. There's only a small amount of liquid inside, colourless, catching the light in a glinting prism of colours as Erik tips the vial from side to side, watching the opiate swirl around.

Strange to think that something so innocent-seeming will be the end of a mutant as powerful as Shaw.

Stranger still is the thought that he'll be the one killing Shaw, killing him with poison and treachery, this man who had raised him and called him son.

It's not too late to back out, a voice at the back of his head murmurs. Erik can't be sure if the thought belongs to himself or to Charles. Either way, he shakes his head, drawing on the bottomless reserves of his anger. Shaw had his parents killed. Shaw sold out his own kind. Vengeance, justice - they're one and the same. Erik has a duty to see this through.

He looks down at the modest spread of food in front of him. Currently, he's alone in the kitchen of one of Shaw's safehouses, still playing the part of Lord Xavier's dutiful manservant. Shaw had tasked him with preparing dinner - "Oysters, perhaps," he had said with a chuckle that almost made Erik hit him - and, more importantly, Erik is to serve their drinks. Well, dinner is as finished as it's ever going to be. He rings a bell to signal the start of the meal, bringing the appetizers out to the cozy round table where Shaw and Charles are seated. Too close, Erik thinks angrily, only for Charles to smooth calming mental fingers against him, a feeling not unlike having his hair stroked.

The main course is next, with the wine alongside. In the closed confines of the kitchen, Erik stares down at the glass of dark red liquid, rolling the crystal vial around in his hand.

Shaw made him into the man he is today.

And Charles... Charles is making him into someone better.

Erik tips the entire vial into one of the glasses. Then he carries both glasses out, setting one in front of Charles, one in front of Shaw. It feels like a goodbye.

Charles dips into his mind again, and his presence already feels so familiar that it makes Erik ache with the enormity of all he feels. It's done, he tells Charles, and Charles surrounds him in a warm blanket of reassurance and love.

Then it's almost over. I'm glad.

Don't get too comfortable yet, he might still have a trick or two up his sleeve.

It doesn't take long for Erik to be proven right. The effects of the opium start subtly at first: a yawn, a lazy blink, a flirtation trailing off into drowsy silence. Shaw keeps drinking - but not fast enough.

Erik! Charles' mental shout of alarm sends Erik grabbing all the nearest metal just as Shaw surges to his feet and slams his hands on the table in a deafening crack.

"You!" He thunders at Charles, lurching forward. "The hell did you do to me?"

The effects of the opium have made Shaw clumsy, but he's still a deadly threat - Charles had scrambled up to his feet already and is now backing away, glancing between Shaw and Erik. He lifts one hand and presses two fingers against his temple.

Then he drops his hand, eyes wide.

"Hold him, Charles," Erik snarls. There's plenty of metal orbiting him, sharp knives and heavy tools, iron banisters fashioned into deadly points to stab and pierce. He doesn't know if any of it will do any good against Shaw.

Shaw spares him a look. Fury twists his face into a snarling mask.

Then he smiles. It's a chilling, poisonous expression. "Charles," he croons, sickeningly sweet. "Have you turned my Erik against me?"

"Charles did nothing except give me the truth." Erik clenches his fist, reshaping all the metal around him into long, flowing lengths of chain. Brute force won't work against Shaw; he must keep him contained somehow...

Shaw gives him a contemptuous look, dismissing him as easily as he would swat a fly. Erik's heart leaps into his throat as Shaw advances on Charles again, menace roiling off him in waves. "Did you seduce him? Does he know what you do behind closed doors, little Lord Xavier?"

"Hold him, Charles, what are you waiting for-"

Be quiet, Erik, he's stronger than I expected. Charles' fingers go to his temple again. He stands his ground, staring Shaw down, a quiet fury in his eyes that Erik has never seen before.

But Shaw just keeps going, looming over Charles, and Erik's panic grows. “Get away from him!”

He hurls the chains forward with a jerk of his hand. They snake around Shaw’s neck and chest, a strangling noose of iron powerful enough to break bone. Erik yanks at the chains; he needs to force Shaw back, anything, anything at all to get him away from Charles…

Shaw only laughs. The air around him ripples with heat, and his skin churns nauseatingly as he absorbs the energy of Erik’s frantic attempts. “I taught you better than that,” he chides.

With nothing but a light flick of Shaw’s wrist, the chains snap. The fragments crumble to the ground and Shaw treads carelessly over them. He’s only three feet away from Charles now. Two.

Erik sees red. He doesn’t think, just hurls piece after piece of metal at Shaw, Shaw’s sick laughter ringing in his ears as all his efforts crash and break against the unmovable wall of Shaw’s body, useless, powerless.

Keep it up, Erik, it’s working, you’re distracting him–

Charles’ presence in his mind vanishes abruptly. His face is blanched of all colour, but the blue of his eyes remains stark and fierce, and he never once blinks in the face of Shaw’s advance.

But courage isn’t enough against an enemy like Shaw. Neither is brute force, Erik thinks, even as he sends the chains lashing forward again. Subtlety, that’s what he needs here, that’s what Charles had taught him; mere anger isn’t enough.

“Once we’re done here, I’ll tear down every single one of your projects,” Erik promises. He winds the chains around Shaw’s neck again and again, and when Shaw shatters them, Erik reforms them once more, implacable. “The Brotherhood will know everything you’ve done. Your memory will be a curse.”

Shaw is snarling now – his pride and greed have always been his weakness, and Erik presses his advantage.

“Mutants will flourish without you. All along, you were the one holding us back–”

“After all I’ve done for all of you – I was the one who made you–“

“You lied to me!” Erik roars, fury surging. “All my life, you’ve been using me!”

“For the greater good!” Shaw whirls around to face him, eyes blazing–

–And then his eyes go empty. He is a statue, frozen in time. Erik darts a quick glance at Charles and finds his expression drawn tight with strain. Blood is trickling down his nose, a shade of red so dark that it’s almost black. But his voice is even as he says: “Hurry, Erik. Remember the plan.”

Erik picks up the wineglass and approaches Shaw. His eyes are so dead. It’s as if he’s already a corpse already – and perhaps that’s not so far from the truth, when Shaw will never move under his own power again, will never speak another word, never tell another lie…

Vengeance should be more satisfying than this. Erik only feels numb as he prises Shaw’s jaw open and forces the rest of the poisoned wine down his throat.

Shaw collapses. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. Erik knows he’ll never wake again.

Then Charles crumples to the ground as well, and Erik moves before he registers what he’s doing, rushing to Charles’ side and dropping to his knees. “Charles! What’s wrong?”

Charles’ eyes are cloudy, blood still trickling down his nose, splashing his lips red. “Did it help?” He asks quietly.

“You’re not making any sense.” Erik gathers Charles into his arms, registering with dull surprise that his hands are shaking. Charles is trembling as well, swallowing convulsively, his breathing rapid and shallow. “Talk to me, Charles, what’s wrong? How can I help?”

“Did it help?” Charles repeats insistently. “Killing Shaw. Did it help?”

Erik shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. It’s impossible to think about Shaw when Charles looks worse with each passing second. Erik fumbles for his pulse, finding it dangerously weak and thready. “Forget Shaw. You’re, are you–” He grips Charles’ hand. “Fight it, Charles, whatever it is, you need to fight it.”

Charles reaches out, gently running his fingers against Erik’s cheek. “I think I’m still in his head.” His voice is soft, almost dreamy. “You were magnificent. You made him so furious at the end, he forgot about everything else. He was determined to take us down with him. He still is.”

“He won’t succeed,” Erik vows, even though he’s cold with dread. “Stay with me. Focus on my mind, not his.”

Holding tightly onto Charles’ hand, afraid to let go, Erik guides him to press the tips of his fingers against the side of Erik’s head. Stay with me, he calls to Charles again, trying to project warmth and comfort, candlelight and memories of the long hours they had spent in the study. He grasps hold of the little details: the feeling of parchment paper under his fingertips, the play of light across Charles’ hands when he gesticulates, the cadence of Charles’ voice as he argues a particularly fine point…

They stay together like that, Erik holding grimly onto Charles, an unmovable anchor as their minds bleed together, intertwining. Behind them, Shaw’s breathing gradually slows, then stops, and with his passing Charles goes still as well, peace falling over him.

(next part)

[anistarrose]

Some Sunny Day - Chapter 10: Happy to Know (Gravity Falls - Same Coin Theory)

Summary: It’ll all out in the open now.

Warnings: Suicidal ideation (no one dies)

Previous / Next

The Beginning (see here for AO3 link)

Just a quick foreword for this chapter and the next one: now that the main cast members are all realizing the truth, they’re going to be expressing some opinions on the situation (interpretations of the theory) that are not necessarily my own, and may not reflect the overall direction this fic is taking. The truth is out, but there’s still a lot that needs to be worked through, so if this chapter feels like a downer, don’t worry — this fic is tagged Hurt/Comfort for a reason that will (eventually) become apparent.

(The Same Coin Theory is by @dubsdeedubs and @renmorris!)

Stanley’s mindscape was changing.

Ford somehow remained blind to it until he tried to stand up, only to fall back down to his hands and knees as the floorboards shuddered and swayed beneath his feet. All around him, walls buckled and planks were torn out of place, rearranging themselves to craft new hallways, new connections between memories.

Hissing geysers erupted from cracks in the floor, the scalding-hot plumes weaving deftly around him as their steam escaped through the holes in the roof. Some of the clouds took longer to drift out of sight, and as they hung lazily in the air, Ford could make out images in them — a rift, a shooting star. A fire, a fist. A statue.

The steam even seemed to seep out of the walls and floor themselves, sapping the darkness from the wood as it grew lighter and lighter, brighter and brighter until it burned Ford’s eyes just to look at. The grain patterns in the planks shifted and flickered like waves of fire, taking on a blue hue as they leapt out of the wood and into the air, chasing away the last wisps of darkness to render Stan’s mind in all white and light gray, accented by the yellow gleam of the knots in the walls as they all shifted to fixate their gaze on Ford, unblinking.

He covered his eyes, but the images stayed seared in his memory.

***

Stanley laughed — a long, hearty laugh that would have brought tears to his eyes and a sore sensation to his gut, had he not been immaterial and invulnerable, free from the oppressive laws of physics as the undisputed master of the mindscape.

Oh, it had been so long — so long since he’d last looked beyond where his cataract-ridden human eyes could see, since he’d last snapped his fingers and rewritten the rules of the universe however he deemed fit, so long since he’d last consciously thought about how ancient and how powerful he was, how much he was truly capable of when he set his mind to it…

He didn’t know whether to call it ten months or sixty-two years, but it had been so long, too long.

So long since he’d last cheated someone out of some precious time in possession of their own body, so long since he’d razed a dimension from the inside out and danced as it went up in flames, so long since he’d —

So long since he’d tortured his former pawn (his future brother) to give up the equation confining his reign of terror to a single town, so long since he’d left it up to chance which child (which nibling) he’d kill in cold blood, to convince Ford that he meant what he said about hurting those kids —

Fuck, fuck, fuck —

More and more memories kept rushing back, some already remembered from a different perspective, but many worse than anything a still-amnesiac-Stanley would have ever dreamed of. Dimensions burnt to the ground, deals struck and puppets claimed, eyes dripping blood and cutlery jabbed into arms —

He had always known on some level, he realized.

(No, not realized. Admitted.)

He had known since the blue flames first flickered up around his fingers that morning, and he had known since he first found the prisms in Ford’s house and been struck by a wave of déjà vu, as long-slumbering memories grew restless in their sleep. He had known since he’d swung back and forth on a rusty swingset on a beach, staring at the six-fingered hands gripping the chains of the other swing, and addressed their owner by a nickname from a prophecy written centuries ago, in a cave two thousand miles away. He’d known ever since the blue fire of the burning mindscape had faded away, and he’d opened two eyes in a hospital in New Jersey, mind blank but not truly empty.

He just couldn’t admit it to himself and stay sane. He didn’t dare risk reawakening the demon that lurked in his memories, bound in place by the flimsy chain that was his newly acquired conscience — but it hadn’t just been about self-preservation, or even the preservation of the rest of the world, had it? He hadn’t been able find the courage to admit it to his family, either, to tell them who he was — and then, even worse, to explain how he’d known and lied about it for so long, for as long as he’d known them. How he’d lied until he couldn’t remember what was a lie and what wasn’t.

And he didn’t know how to tell them that all the lying been futile, in the end, because denial could erase memories but not actions. Not who, not what he was. His very identity as the others saw it — as even he had been foolish enough to see it, for sixty-two years — was nothing more than just another con. Just another fake name.

All belief of being Stanley Pines abandoned, Bill Cipher raised a hand to cover his mouth and screamed.

***

The one remaining column of steam in the room exploded just as Ford pulled himself to his feet, and winds tore across the room, howling in agony but miraculously not knocking him down. On unsteady feet, a figure with disheveled hair but an impeccable suit and tie walked falteringly forwards, away from the site of detonation — and despite himself, Ford stepped towards him.

“Stanley? Are you —”

Stan’s head jerked up, and he stared at Ford like a deer in the headlights. “No! No, don’t come any closer, I —”

His feet lifted off the floor, and waves of pixels and static rippled up his body as he gritted his teeth, form flickering back and forth between human and —

And something Ford couldn’t quite make out, human and —

Human and —

A sickly yellow triangle materialized out of the static, single eye unblinking as thin black limbs dangled limply towards the ground.

“Well,” he said, in the quietest voice Ford had ever heard emanate from Bill Cipher, “you probably see why you shouldn’t come near me.”

Ford’s stomach churned like it had been thrown into perpetual free fall, and his eyes unfocused.

“What did you do to him?!” he howled. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BROTHER?!”

“Nothing,” Bill said, hands curling into tiny black fists as his appearance flickered and morphed into Stan once again. “I got some bad news, Sixer.”

“Stop pretending to be him!” Ford snarled. “I know you’re really Cipher, so stop — stop making a mockery of him like that! Stop pretending!”

“I have stopped.” The being that took on Stan’s appearance looked genuinely upset, shaking his head slowly and refusing to make eye contact for more than a fraction of a second. “I was — I was pretending for a really long time, but —”

“You’re not making any sense, St—” Ford barely caught himself, and corrected frantically. “No, I mean — fuck. What do you fucking want from me, Bill, that —”

Stan took a shaky breath — the type that often comes when tears are starting to dampen one’s eyes, and they’re trying not to let them creep into their voice. “I really had you convinced, didn’t I?”

He closed his two eyes, after another burst of static, Bill opened his one. “Sixer, I… I was always Stan.”

“What?! No, of all the bullshit — is this some reincarnation angle you’re going for? Because you clearly died long after Stan was —”

“Time doesn’t work like that, Ford! You went rooting through my memories, you saw me invoke the Axolotl — that big frilly know-it-all exists way outside of any backwards and forwards or cause and effect, you must have figured that out by now! I invoked it back when I was burning in my own damn mindscape, when I didn’t actually want to die, and you know what it thought? It thought I was worth saving — oh, and not just saving, but worth shoving me back into your lives like I hadn’t ruined them enough yet!”

“Don’t talk like that about him! Don’t talk like you are him! I won’t fall for your tricks, Cipher, I —”

“I don’t want it to be true either!” Bill wailed, and a fiery blue tear fell from his eye, continuing to roll down his cheek as he turned back into Stan. “You have no idea, I — I want more than anything to to go back to just a couple days ago, to being able to pretend everything is normal and only thinking about spending the summer with you all! But — but it’s not — I can’t pretend anymore! I’m too dangerous to all of you!”

His hoarse voice broke every few words, so full of anguish and so unmistakably Stan. So far beyond anything Bill would ever have the capability to fake.

“There’s — there’s got to be memories getting mixed up in here somehow,” Ford whispered, and though he tried to sound comforting it ended up sounding more like a desperate prayer. “We’ll get this all sorted out, Stanley, don’t worry —”

“You can’t sort out what was never mixed up in the first place!” Bill yelled. “Why won’t you just listen to me, Ford? What about — what if I show you something you remember too?”

The Shack shuddered, planks groaning as they moved to make way for a new door that was dragged out from the hallway by an unseen force. Blue flames ignited around the knob as it twisted open on its own, letting the door swing open to reveal —

Earlier this June, about two weeks ago. Ford shuffled cards as Dipper and Mabel pulled chairs up to a table, and Stan carried in a bowl of fresh popcorn.

“Alright, what are we doin’ for teams?” he asked, setting down the bowl. “Ford and I are obviously unstoppable together, so it’s only fair if we both team up with one of you kiddos…”

“Yeah, ‘cause you both count cards…” Dipper muttered under his breath.

Stan ignored him and folded his hands together, making a point with his index fingers as he gestured between Mabel and Dipper. “Eenie meenie miney… you.”

Dipper flinched as Stan landed on him, staring at his pointed fingers with horror for a moment before taking a few hurried steps backward. “I, uh…”

Stan frowned. “Something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” Mabel murmured. “It’s a Bill thing, isn’t it, Dipper?”

Dipper started to shake his head, but then sighed and pulled down his hat. “Yeah. He… he said that to me a couple times, and now I just…”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Stan said. “Tell me right away if I ever use a bad phrase like that again, okay?”

Dipper nodded, and Ford put a hand on his shoulder. To Stan, he whispered: “I think I remember hearing Bill use that phrase once, but… aside from that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it from anyone but you. Did he — did he steal your catchphrase?”

Stan shrugged. “I dunno, but I hope he didn’t steal anything else. Dipper — or any of you, actually — are there any other words you guys want me to avoid?”

The other three Pines shook their heads, and Stan smiled, passing the bowl of popcorn in Dipper’s direction. “Well then, let’s play some euchre before the popcorn gets cold. I got fancy with this batch and made it on the stove, ya know.”

The door to the memory slammed shut, and Ford bit his lip. His hands were trembling at his sides, fingers curled so tightly that they ached like hell, and he couldn’t bear to look down at them in fear he might find them bleeding.

“Coincidence,” he choked out. “It has to be.”

“What will make you believe it, Sixer?” Stan asked. “Fuck, even that nickname should clue you in! Did you ever think it was weird that the two of us both called you Sixer, and just the two of us?”

“Bill must have stolen it from you. Like he stole —”

“That nickname came from the zodiac and you know it! I know you know it, so why can’t you just — just — just look at yourself, Stanford!”

The air shimmered between them, forming a surface so pristine and perfectly reflective that Ford almost thought he was still looking at his twin, view unobstructed — but Stan had been silhouetted in blue flames just a moment ago, while Ford’s reflection was awash with darkness. Clouds circled him slowly, not a single spark of lightning seen in the air between them, and they blurred together with his trenchcoat as it flowed in the gentle wind, disintegrating into tiny gray droplets at the hem. Dark paths traced from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks, running off his chin and down his neck towards his sweater, where they bled into the wool and stained it black.

And the hands, unmistakably six-fingered and undeniably his own, were dripping dark liquid too — not the blood he thought he’d felt, but relentless cascades of black, feeding rivers that hissed and steamed as they ran across the floor’s glowing planks.

“Don’t you see? You’re drawing all the darkness left in my mind towards you because you’re the one in the deepest denial now — but trust me, Ford, it’s not gonna last forever. Something’s gonna snap you out of it sooner or later, so it — it might as well be now. Just accept that I’m not who you thought I was.”

“Fuck,” Ford whispered. “Stanley, you — you’re — you really —”

Stan rose above the mirror, still cloaked in flames as his body convulsed into the form of Bill once more.

“You said no one is allowed to say Stanley is worthless, but guess what? ‘Stanley’ isn’t real. He was just another lie, invented by an amnesiac dream demon who almost managed to convince even himself that he deserved to have a family.”

His voice broke again, but he looked at Ford in the eye as he continued:

“Face it, Sixer — you never had a twin.”

“No!” The dark clouds and blue fire both blew back from Ford as he yelled, voice echoing in his own ears like a grenade going off. “Reincarnation is one thing, but — but there are some things that I’ll never — that can’t —”

He lunged at (Stan? Bill? His brother? He didn’t know) but his hands and then arms passed harmlessly through the triangle, flickering and fading to white — and then Bill’s body turned transparent too, seeming to almost catch him off guard.

“Oh,” he whispered, and transformed back to a faint, quickly fading outline of Stan. “Guess it’s time. See you on the other side, Sixer.”

And then Ford couldn’t see anything anymore, but he could hear a high, echoing voice call out once again as if from far away:

Remember, a deal’s a deal.

***

“Alright, that should be it for the barrier,” Fiddleford announced as he stood up from his kneeling position and watched a glowing blue dome briefly flicker into existence around the sleeping Pines. “Remind me not to leave these mercury vials here on the floor after this has all blown over.”

“How will we know if it works?” Melody asked.

“Great question! I have no idea, an’ hopefully we’ll never hafta find out.”

“Real reassuring,” Wendy muttered under her breath. “Hey, how long do you think it’ll be before —”

Ford leapt bolt upright and tossed the pillow he’d been clutching halfway across the room. “Bill, what do you —”

He locked eyes with Fiddleford. “Fidds? Oh no, Stanley, where’s Stanley —”

He whirled around and saw Soos and the kids beginning to stir, but only Stan opened his eyes — regular and brown, no sign of possession to be found.

“Shoot me, Ford,” he whispered.

Ford froze. “No!! Why would you think I would ever do that?!”

Slowly, as if still feeling the effects of the sedative, Stan pulled himself out of his chair. “Because you promised?”

“When did I ever promise I would shoot you?”

Stan shook his head and sighed, nervously glancing at the kids and Soos and taking a few quick steps away from them while they opened their eyes and rubbed their ears. “Look, Ford, I know it’s been… a long day, but you’ve gotta remember. You promised you’d kill me if Bill took control, and I’m feeling — I’m feeling pretty in-control of myself right now, so —”

“What?” Soos jumped to his feet and grabbed ahold of Stan’s arm. “Mr. Pines, what are you saying? You can’t — you can’t leave us, you’re —”

Stan tore himself out of Soos’s grip and rushed to Ford’s side. “Just get it over with! Please!”

He ran both hands over his skull, yanking on fistfuls of his own hair. “You have to, before I end up hurting someone! Please, I — I — I fuckin’ killed you enough times in Weirdmageddon, I deserve this! Don’t you want to get revenge on me?! Don’t you want to protect your family?!”

“You what?! Grunkle Stan, what do you mean?!” Mabel grabbed ahold Ford’s trenchcoat, voice rising as she clasped handfuls of the brown fabric in trembling, balled-up fists. “What does he mean?!”

“Don’t say that, Stanley,” Ford breathed. “For the kids’ sake, I can’t —”

Stan’s gaze drifted towards a spot the floor a few feet away, fixating on a pale blue chunk of moonstone. He’d noticed the barrier, Ford realized a second too late.

“Fine,” Stan whispered as he stepped backwards. “Then I guess I’ll just have to… take care of it myself.”

“No! Don’t go! Don’t you dare leave us like —”

Ford lunged after him, but Stan backed out of the barrier too quickly, and Ford’s hand passed right through Stan’s shoulder as he disintegrated like smoke in a gust of wind. A single tear fell from where Stan’s face had just been, striking the floor without a sound.

“Grunkle Ford, what happened?” Dipper’s voice cracked. “We found Bill’s memories, and then he — Bill glitched out, and it felt like the whole mindscape was gonna get torn apart —”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Ford said. “I — I don’t know what to believe.”

“Stan’s not — that wasn’t Bill just now, was it?”

“I don’t know.”

Dipper went silent, leaving the quiet sobs from behind him as the loudest sound remaining in the room.

“He’s really gone,” Soos wept. “After everything, he’s just — he’s just gone —”

Ford took a few steps backward and slowly laid an arm over Soos’s broad shoulders, eyes still fixed on the damp spot where Stan’s tear had struck the floor.

“He’s still out there somewhere,” he insisted, “he has to be. I would know if he wasn’t. I’m sure I would.”

He wasn’t sure. That — that entity, with Stan’s eyes and Bill’s memories, almost certainly had the power to destroy its own self in an instant, and Ford had no reason to believe that it hadn’t just done so. (It might not even matter, if Stan wasn’t even in there anymore. Or if he’d never been in there in the first place —)

But baseless hope had pulled through for Ford countless times before, and once again, it was all he had to go on now.

“Stanley is still out there,” he repeated, “and we need to find him.”

***

End notes:

I chose Ford’s POV for this chapter because it made certain scenes a lot more horrifying/impactful, especially the part with the mirror, but I realized while editing that the result is a bit of a trade-off in which Stan’s motivations become a little less clear, so I’d like to clarify: the reason Stan doesn’t immediately leave the new unicorn hair barrier is because he doesn’t trust himself to end his own life, and in fact doesn’t really trust anyone besides Ford to do so. It’s only when Ford shows he’s clearly not willing to cooperate that Stan leaves, realizing that taking it into his own hands is the best option he has left. (Also, as much as he’s convinced he has to die… it’s still terrifying to him, and he doesn’t want to leave the world all alone. It’s not his main motivation for his actions at the end, but it definitely plays a role.)

Anyways, feedback/reblogs are appreciated as always! Next update should stick to the every other Monday schedule that I’ve been attempting!

[you-are-my-neverland]

Book Recommendations (1)

Lost in the Sun by Lisa Graff

Summary:  “ Everyone says that middle school is awful, but Trent knows nothing could be worse than the year he had in fifth grade, when a freak accident on Cedar Lake left one kid dead, and Trent with a brain full of terrible thoughts he can't get rid of. Trent wants middle school to be a fresh start, if only he could make that happen. It isn’t until Trent gets caught up in the whirlwind that is Fallon Little—the girl with the mysterious scar across her face—that things begin to change. Because fresh starts aren’t always easy. Even in baseball, when a fly ball gets lost in the sun, you have to remember to shift your position to find it.”

Personal thoughts: It’s definitely a book geared to more younger audiences, but I think it’s a good read for all ages. I actually haven’t read it in a while, but Trent is a character I think lots of people can relate to. He struggles with anger and rage; emotions he has no idea what to do with. Fallon is a quirky character that you can never quite get a hold of, and she makes for a spectacular story. 

Starfish by Akemi Dawn Bowman

Summary:  “ A half-Japanese teen grapples with social anxiety and her narcissist mother in the wake of a crushing rejection from art school in this debut novel. Kiko has always struggled with saying what she’s thinking, and an overbearing mother makes things even harder. Her one hope and dream is Prism, a fancy art school. But then Kiko doesn’t get into Prism, at the same time her abusive uncle moves back in with her family. So when she receives an invitation from her childhood friend to leave her small town and tour art schools on the west coast, Kiko jumps at the opportunity in spite of the anxieties and fears that attempt to hold her back. And now that she is finally free to be her own person outside the constricting walls of her home life, Kiko learns life-changing truths about herself, her past, and how to be brave.”

Personal thoughts: ‘Starfish’ is a book that touches on a lot of sensitive issues, such as emotional and verbal abuse, presumed sexual assault (my memory isn’t that clear on what exactly happened so djkadhf), and Kiko herself is a very complex character. She’s a survivor who has to face every survivor’s worst fear; the abuser returning. Art is her only escape, but when that too fails, she feels like she’s spiraling. On many levels, she’s a character so many people can connect to, and the story really shows the reality of life. 

Turtles All the Way Down by John Greene

Summary:  “ Sixteen-year-old Aza never intended to pursue the mystery of fugitive billionaire Russell Pickett, but there’s a hundred-thousand-dollar reward at stake and her Best and Most Fearless Friend, Daisy, is eager to investigate. So together, they navigate the short distance and broad divides that separate them from Russell Pickett’s son, Davis. Aza is trying. She is trying to be a good daughter, a good friend, a good student, and maybe even a good detective, while also living within the ever-tightening spiral of her own thoughts.”

Personal thoughts: You’ve probably either read or heard of this book, but if you haven’t yet, this is a definite book you should read. Aza is really an intriguing character, and one of the things I like about her is that she doesn’t really get a happy ending. The book is her trying (and sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing) to find a way to cope with her disorder. It’s a really deep book (lots and lots of good quality quotes). It’s not supposed to be a positive or negative book; it shows the real struggles of dealing with mental illnesses and trying to balance your normal life along with it.

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

Summary:  “Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price–and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can’t pull it off alone…A convict with a thirst for revenge. A sharpshooter who can’t walk away from a wager. A runaway with a privileged past. A spy known as the Wraith. A Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums. A thief with a gift for unlikely escapes. Six dangerous outcasts. One impossible heist. Kaz’s crew is the only thing that might stand between the world and destruction—if they don’t kill each other first.”

Personal thoughts: This book is genius. It’s part of a duo-logy, and is set in the same universe as the author’s Grisha trilogy. In my opinion, you don’t have to read the Grisha trilogy (I didn’t), though it would probably be helpful. You’re able to figure things out pretty quickly though. I’m serious about this book being spectacular though; it’s one of those books where the main character is so clever that you wonder how the author possibly wrote them. Kaz is a trickster and a conman, and makes the book filled with twists and turns that leave you shocked. The other five main characters will grab your heart just as much though; wily and clever and heart wrenching with every page and every new thing you learn. It leaves you holding your breath-but don’t hold it for too long, because there is a sequel, Crooked Kingdom (I...sobbed).

The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

Summary:   “Jude was seven when her parents were murdered and she and her two sisters were stolen away to live in the treacherous High Court of Faerie. Ten years later, Jude wants nothing more than to belong there, despite her mortality. But many of the fey despise humans. Especially Prince Cardan, the youngest and wickedest son of the High King. To win a place at the Court, she must defy him–and face the consequences. As Jude becomes more deeply embroiled in palace intrigues and deceptions, she discovers her own capacity for trickery and bloodshed. But as betrayal threatens to drown the Courts of Faerie in violence, Jude will need to risk her life in a dangerous alliance to save her sisters, and Faerie itself.”

Personal thoughts: For once, we meet a main character as twisted and cutthroat as the ‘villain’-who also happens to be the love interest, if you can call them that. Jude is vicious and bitter after surviving for years as a human in Faerie. The Fey are cruel, tricky, deceptive, especially towards her. This whole book was just awesome, really, but in a dark way. Jude goes past just trying to save herself; and in turn endangers so many people.

The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvator

Summary:   “An unlikely group stumbles across ancient magic in Virginia: Blue, the daughter of the town psychic in Henrietta, Virginia, who has been told for as long as she can remember that if she ever kisses her true love, he will die. Gansey, who seeks the Welsh magic he believes saved his life. Adam, who searches for a way out of the circumstances he was born into. Ronan, who seeks to recover the magic of his childhood.”

Personal thoughts: Another series I give my heart too. The first book in The Raven Cycle series, this book is rich with mythology set in a realistic world. Rich boys with backstories, headstrong girl with physic abilities, ley lines-what could go wrong? It’s a story about youth, mystery, romance, friendship, fantasy-a little bit of everything thrown in between. Each character is unique, from your perfect rich boy Gansey to scholarly Adam, cold Ronan and spunky Blue. Even if the book doesn’t sound exciting, I can guarantee that you’ll probably be completely absorbed in one way or another. 

Conviction by Kelly Loy Gilbert

Summary:   “Ten years ago, God gave Braden a sign, a promise that his family wouldn’t fall apart the way he feared. But Braden got it wrong: his older brother, Trey, has been estranged from the family for almost as long, and his father, the only parent Braden has ever known, has been accused of murder. The arrest of Braden’s father, a well-known Christian radio host, has sparked national media attention. His fate lies in his son’s hands; Braden is the key witness in the upcoming trial. Braden has always measured himself through baseball. Now the rules of the sport that has always been Braden’s saving grace are blurred in ways he never realized, and the prospect of playing against Alex Reyes, the nephew of the police officer his father is accused of killing, is haunting his every pitch. Braden faces an impossible choice, one that will define him for the rest of his life, in this brutally honest debut novel about family, faith, and the ultimate test of conviction.”

Personal thoughts: Honestly, this is a book I can reread over and over again. Maybe because it’s a book that focuses on Braden’s faith and his struggle as one of the main topics, but it really pulled me in. I practically devoured this whole book in one day. Braden really struggles internally on what is the right thing to do, as well as externally when his brother, Trey, returns to be his guardian. It focuses a lot on their brotherly relationship-in which of them have two very different perspectives of what their lives have been like-some romance, but mostly it’s a book about Braden himself. When the line between right and wrong is blurred, what path do you choose?

[lumenfaearchived-blog]

<Starter> - @mcledictus

      “You wont find the answers in that one.”

She knew the scroll he was reading- she’d read it often herself back when- ... well, those were memories for another day. She wasn’t altogether positive of what he was directly searching for but she knew the contents of that particular one- and it truly didn’t hold anything of great use.

And his shoulders looked tense- .. so he must have been slowly realizing that as well. Though- that could have also been from her interruption. Standing at the entrance eyes trained on his, a soft sigh escaped her. 

In ways-... it was similar to how she once was- .. so long ago, reading and studying all she could just to learn how the magic in the world worked.. and yet so different.

       “- it is strange. You feel like you definitely belong here and         hold the heart of Fairy Tail and yet.. you hide yourself here.         Away from everyone. Why is that?”

[bluewritesbadly]

Chapter Eight - Lin

Thank you all for your support! Here is what I wrote today, unedited sorry.

“Lin discovers that there aren’t many things to do in Dante’s room except think.

She looks around the room, taking in her surroundings. There’s a bed, a desk, and a closed chest. She sighs through her gills, which is a very new feeling for her.

She lets her hand linger on her neck. Her fingers dance along the living lines that pulsate with each breath she takes. They feel like skin, but they are cold to the touch. The water almost vibrates around them, something Lin is coming to associate with magic.

The girl, Lev, had used magic. So did Dante. Do all merma- no, Syreni- use magic? She corrects herself in her head. If they do, why aren’t they fixing world hunger or stopping global warming? But they can’t get involved without telling everybody they exist.

They really aren’t that different from humans though. They don’t have tails, but their faces are pretty distinct. Especially Lev’s.

Lin tries to push the thought away. Lev’s eyes had immediately caught her attention. The flecks of gold that decorate her eyes shone in the dim light of Dante’s room. The blue was darker around the edges of her irises, almost black before receding into the turbulent light blue of the ocean. Her green hair was tangled together but still not messy. It was like there was a meaning to the madness. There were some streaks of blue that disappeared into the tangles.

The markings that decorated her skin were hard not to notice. Lin had let her eyes drift across the girl’s torso and take in the lines crossing through scars. Lev didn’t have as many markings as Dante.

Dante’s leg had caught Lin’s attention almost immediately. The metal was crushed slightly to form a leg shape, and there was some sort of plant life growing through the cracks of the knee. It entranced her.

Lin shakes her head. What has she gotten herself into?

She lays in Dante’s bed and watches as her hair settles onto the sheet. The mattress is soft and malleable. She raises a hand. It glides through the water, pushing waves out in all directions. It will take a while to get used to this. The antigravity of the ocean is something she is used to from home, but in the past year she has lost the familiar feeling of joy that used to push through her chest and tell her to swim for the fun of it.

Lin lets her hand drop slowly back onto the sheets. She stares up at the roof of the room. It is much like the floor, wooden boards riddled with algae and moss that let in the dim light of the morning. Through the closed door, she can see the same low, purple glow of the memory stones. There’s a broken, circular window to Lin’s right. Jagged pieces of glass stick out of it like teeth, waiting for something to fall victim to its trap.

Beyond the window, Lin sees a small, overturned boat. It looks big enough to hold two rooms, but there is a large gash in the side, showing the guts of what is someone’s home.

Lin turns her gaze to the desk on the wall opposite the worn bed. Two memory stones lay there, of different sizes and shapes. There is a large, thin, stone slab that takes up most of the wooden desk. An odd looking, three sided prism made of metal lays next to it. There are symbols carved into the tablet.

Lin sits up and pushes herself off of the bed, her feet leaving the soft material of the sheets and landing on the slimy wooden floorboards. She slowly paddles her way to stand by the desk. The tablet’s symbols are neat and precise. Lin guesses that it is a language of some kind that the Syreni use.

Maybe that’s why their voices sound echoed when they speak english.

The two clear stones have refracted images flicking in and out of existence inside them. They taunt Lin.

The rumbling roar of an engine shakes Lin out of her thoughts. She notices that her hand had been inching closer to the oblong memory stone. She pulls it back quickly. The stone shimmers, and Lin takes a step back. Her head pounds with the echoes of her pulse that cloud her mind.

Her legs give out beneath her. The water pushes her hair back as her knees land with a thud onto the soft wood. The sounds of the engine stop above but she can’t hear it.

Her back burns. The familiar pain that races along her shoulders is back. Her forehead meets the floor. Her mind is full; she can’t think.

Memories flash behind her eyelids. Memories of needles and lab coats. Memories of cold, metal bars trapping her in and of Raya’s arms surrounding her and pushing away the pain. The main one that is at the front of her mind is that crooked smile. Those eyes that look disinterested as she writhes in pain. She can almost hear his voice as he towers over her body.

“Try it again.”

Lin waits for the needle to penetrate her skin. It never comes. The burning in her veins never comes. The blinding pain in her head never comes.

Her head clears as the pain fades. She opens her eyes slowly. The world in front of her is blurry as she blinks away the clouds in her mind. As she gains her bearings, she sits up and her senses come back to her. She can feel the imprint of the wood on her forehead. Her back aches. Her ears are ringing as she glances around. There is a slightly red tint to the water behind her.

She’s bleeding, or she was bleeding. Her fingers find no open wounds on her back. She pushes off of the ground. Her legs are shaky as she stands hesitantly.

Sound slowly comes back to her as the ringing in her ears stops.

Lin hears voices outside of the ship. They sound worried. She moves to the window and sets her hands on the metal ring, carefully avoiding the broken glass. There are three Syreni gathered outside the small and broken boat. They all hold spears riddled with rust and algae.

They look up at the sky. Lin redirects her gaze to follow theirs. A boat. It’s small but it rests above the town as a clear threat. A figure surrounded in a whirlpool speeds up to it from the Ship of Memories. Lin catches the now familiar glint of Dante’s metal leg.

She pushes out a heavy breath.

Is that Wyatt coming to get me? I can’t just stay here waiting around for his people to come and abduct us again. And what happens if Wyatt finds Lev’s people? What will happen to them?

Lin stops herself. She steps back from the broken window and sits on the bed. The sheets rise in waves at the sudden weight. She keeps her eyes on the window. From her position she can only see the endless blue-green of the ocean.

She fingers the edge of her shirt. Her mind runs in overdrive, just one sentence over and over.

I can’t be the reason these people die.”

[rey-kryze]

WE FOUND OURSELVES WHOLE IN THE BROKEN PLACES.

a reylo fic.  [ either stand alone . or the first steps into a larger world -- ]

synopsis : the first force bond following the battle of crait . with rey and the resistance as safe as they ever are, in hiding on an old rebel base. its a mess of the last jedi reconciling this connection that has only shown to grow stronger with time, and whether or not its a danger to her friends, or herself, if she shares it with them. 

i might make a series / multiple chapter fic. out of this. might actually get into writing longer fic on a platform conducive to it. we shall see. 

The resistance set a course for the outer rim , to a planet with a rebel base that only Bail Organa himself had been aware of, and passed that knowledge to Leia. Rey’d since handed off the falcon ( temporarily ) to Poe, much to the surprise of everyone around her . She’d been tethered to the flight console since they departed Crait , and when prompted, the simple explanation of exhaustion , and how being a force-sensitive , her mind wasn’t safe to the specifics of their destination , was offered to keep their questioning at bay. The planet itself , ( Horox III ) , was nondescript upon landing :  a temperate environment that twisted between the warm humid days, and nights cold enough to blur frost over the transparisteel that ran the length of most rooms. Built with observational intent running north, to south, they had floor to ceiling windows, and on that first night, Rey learned why.

Everything here, from the rocks, to the barren, tuft covered trees, was bio-luminescent , the birds whose songs sounded like the sea crashing against the rocky shore of ahch to, built a nest in one such tree near Rey’s bunk , and leave her feeling wont for a home that had not been hers, a place she’d been only briefly, and yet it’d turned something inside of her brighter.  It had left her changed. Whether for the better, remained to be seen . 

She’d requested her room be set up away from the main compound , and so she’d gathered her things in the patchwork satchel over her shoulder, setting out to the room that was hers now. It’d been , at some point , a repair center for battle mechs , with decommissioned machinery lying in disarray. Its an oddly peaceful scene for the once and always scavenger, who already saw the value in the bits and pieces of a past they’d returned to. A rebel base, now home to the resistance that remained. Sure, not a wildfire any longer, not like it had been during Vader’s rule, she’s certain , but they are a spark all the same.  

Let the past die. Kill it, if you have to .

A haunting memory that has her staring at the remnants of a bygone era with the small , gasping hope that they could come to replicate it. If not in size, than spirit, Rey would stand by the resistance even if she could never rise within it.  She was a piece of them , as this scattered mess spoke to that long aching part of her that sought to belong . After the scene on Crait , she felt their eyes boring hols into her , felt their reverence, their fear , their fury . She was as much a liability being who she was, the last jedi , as an asset . Leia, of course, had been quick to stamp down talks of this but their words burned in Rey’s ears. 

The fog of memory has her sitting against the wall adjacent to the display of nightly creatures scurrying about, wind sifting through trees that bare prisms in their branches - it was more beautiful than anything a desert rat could have ever imagined she’d come to see in her life, and it is this that moves her to tears she’d dare not shed before. Not for Luke. Not for Leia. and most certainly not for Ben. They’re falling faster than she can blink , and at some point in the middle of it, where her shoulders fall forward against her knees, she no longer tries to stop them. Knows it’d be useless to, regardless.  

In truth , she hadn’t let herself feel much of anything , unwilling or unable to , she hasn’t parsed beyond being too busy to stop and process, that the resistance nearly died in that cavern , had been too dire to ignore. And Rey, escapist extraordinaire, had allowed that adrenaline high to persist, sublimating thoughts with memories , feelings ,with actions , and processing any of this , twisted into a selfish act. She’d been damnably methodical in keeping it locked away. 

Now though, in the quiet dark of her new home , she’s faced with absolutely everything she’d hidden beneath a protective bastion before. The walls around her mind waver , and she can, for the first time in weeks, sense his wounded curiosity. It causes a chain reaction , an attempt at refuting this , while knowing the world around her quieted further , teeming with an unseen, overabundant tension that crackles, the force amplified the sound of her heart beat, and then its twin in his, where he sits in some blurred space across from her, it appears he’s propped up on the edge of a bed . In his room . She surmises, wariness and weariness war, and immediately her mind seeks to call her saber, omitting the memory that it was broken in halves , carefully wrapped in the satchel beside her.  It then flicks to wondering , was he in his old one , the one she’d seen in fleeting dreams that’d been shared unwillingly as they slept --- or, had he taken over the likely gaudy chambers Snoke had inhabited.  She shakes her head, aware that he had noticed her only in the tense set of his shoulders, but he’d made no motion to greet, scream at, or otherwise acknowledge Rey, content in acting like she was not there, red-faced with tear stained eyes.

“ Get out.” a hiss , backed with the baleful knowing that -- however much joy he might have taken from her , the fiery spit of hope that she was , had crumbled under the weight of everything she wasn’t --- his sorrow was not just a projection of her own. Rey resents the empathy budding in her chest , and quickly gets a handle on it, “ Even if you can’t . Even if this impossible thing refuses to take the hint -- you might as well be able to. Get up. Walk out of whatever room you’re in, and leave me be .”  

He doesn’t move , only the inward flinch of his already defeated posturing tells her he could even hear. Good . Someplace dark inside her keens, grateful for this echo across the universe that tells her he’s as broken as she’d left him. That she’d caused his ruination . But she balks at it, moved to fear, instead -- and before she can cap it, she knows he can sense the cruel, and sinister thread . She looks back up to find his eyes, not, as she’d expected, marked by recent tears ( not like hers, she remembers , ducking her head enough she hopes the undulating shadows of the room around her would mask them : they didn’t ).  He looks ... hurt, yes , but mostly --- resigned ? Evidently being the supreme leader of the first order hadn’t chased away the last bits of the sad boy she’d seen in shared memory, and it sends a shiver running up her spine . His gloved hands twitch in his lap when he sees it .

“ You know I can’t .” Comes his belated reply, less than a whisper and still it swallows the world around her in his deep, raspy timber, and she has to bite back something wanting , something bitter, too . Compassion was the weakness of the darkness and the strength of the light --- so how was she , the last beacon of the Jedi order, meant to reconcile feeling wholly opposite ? That the vision she’d seen of her future alongside Ben’s ... was a hope she still clung to , as foolish as she’d been as that girl waiting on Jakku. 

Rey , who knew all about waiting, wasn’t going to waste a moment, waiting for him. 

“ Fine .” A bit of her own resignation lies in how coarse the syllable comes past her lips -- were they damned to this fate, forever ? “ I though this was over with.”  She gestures between them , and the bond shudders in recognition -- forcing Rey to set her teeth, it’d only ever been calm when they fought in perfect harmony, or when there hands had touched on that lonely night, what felt like a lifetime ago . Now, it is tempestuous , raging against these two sullen , desolate halves and urging them together, trying, and failing, to make something whole out of the broken places they’d become . Kylo shakes his head , its .. a boyish gesture, not like the contempt she’d seen him filled with , “ Force bonds are for life.” Flatly, “ You or I, have to die , it is the only way to break it.” 

She inhales sharply, aware that he’d hear it, maybe even feel the flood of bile that accompanies her surprise ( or was it fear ? something flashes across hazel eyes that are more green under the duo-moon lit night around her , ) “ Oh .” Not an emotive response, she knows , but she’s not particularly of the mind to give him an inch of what she’s feeling , especially as she cannot glimpse any piece of him that’s not explicitly spelled out through the bond itself. He’s closed his heart, and mind off from her, and despite everything that’s happened, it is that that makes her bitterness spike, and has her teeth catch on the next words she manages , 

“ You told me before to kill my past,” vile. monster. murderous snake . she reminds herself in mantra, not meditative like the Jedi but hot, white rage, “ If you aren’t willing to let go of yours to be a part of my future, I guess we know what I will do with all old things.” the jedi, the sith, the first order, the resistance, “ If you aren’t with me, Ben .” His name stings, she hadn’t meant to use it, and the look of pain blooming in his eyes almost makes it worth swallowing the fire that navigates through her ribs and airways, “ Then you are against me. You are my enemy. My friends enemy. And the enemy of the resistance.” 

the bond ends. displeased with the radiant energies. but just before it does, his iron-clad grip on a singular feeling renews something Rey thought he’d buried.

Hope. 

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 9 April 2018

Quick Bits:

Animosity: Evolution #5 gets to the heart of the criminal enterprise undermining Wintermute’s authority, operating the black market, and what they’ve been trying to accomplish. This arc has definitely been interesting so far, showing that the animal organizations aren’t really all too different from their human counterparts.

| Published by AfterShock

Avengers #688 raises the stakes higher as we speed towards the conclusion of “No Surrender”. While the Challenger flips the table on the game, this issue takes its perspective from Quicksilver, setting up the next stage for his forthcoming Quicksilver: No Surrender limited series.

| Published by Marvel

Barbarella #5 tosses in some more weird science as Barbarella and Vix go prospecting for RUST.

| Published by Dynamite

Bloodshot Salvation #8 begins to marry up the timelines, such that the present is becoming the “soon” timeline that began in the first issue, as Bloodshot travels through the Deadside and we find out how he got tossed into the future. It’s interesting to see how Jeff Lemire’s non-linear threads have been playing out through the story.

| Published by Valiant

Brothers Dracul #1 reunites the team of Cullen Bunn and Mirko Colak, having recently completed the Unholy Grail series, here for an interesting take on the Vlad Tepes story and the Dracula myth. Bunn takes a different approach to the myth, rooting it in much of the recorded history of Vald, his family, and Wallachia under Ottoman rule and it results in a much more grounded story. At least for the first issue. The art from Colak, with colours by Maria Santaolalla, is also great.

| Published by AfterShock

Captain America #700 is Chris Samnee’s last issue on the series, and the last of his work at Marvel for the time being, and he sure does go out with a bang. Samnee and Mark Waid stitch up a conclusion to the Cap in the future arc, although there are some interesting ramifications of the story to unpack, including presenting an idea of the futility of hope. That’s probably bleaker than the creative team necessarily intended it to be read as.

| Published by Marvel

Champions #19 begins the next chapter in the team’s chronicles, with Jim Zub and Sean Izaakse taking over as the new creative team. The art from Izaakse and colourist Marcio Menyz is wonderful throughout, including some great character designs. It’s also interesting to see how Zub has the team approaching new recruits like Ironheart as they try to figure out how the new pieces fit.

| Published by Marvel

Cold War #3 dives into the past of two survivors this time, giving us a look into the history and personalities of LQ and Johnny. Even as the latter fights for relevance and control in the present, seemingly unable to accept the leadership of Vinh or her attempts to protect everyone remaining. Then Christopher Sebela drops another bomb on us as to the state of this future.

| Published by AfterShock

Crude #1 is an interesting beginning, setting up a bit of a mystery involving the death of the son of a former Russian agent, as he gets dragged back into a seedy, harsh existence to hunt down his son’s murderers. Steve Orlando begins this first issue mostly as set-up, flashing back through both Piotr and, his son, Kiril’s lives before getting us to the main plot and arrival at the setting, and source for the title.

| Published by Image / Skybound

The Dead Hand #1 is an impressive debut, capturing perfectly the intrigue and action of a Cold War thriller, matched with the bleakness of more modern interpretations of Russia and a twist that you’ll never see coming. Kyle Higgins’ Image outings tend to be wonderful reads, like COWL and Hadrian’s Wall, and this series seems no different so far. It’s also great to see Stephen Mooney providing the line art here, his style is perfectly suited to spy and thriller stories, especially as coloured here by Jordie Bellaire.

| Published by Image

Deadly Class #33 continues to tear everything down, blow everything up, or beat it into a bloody pulp. Nothing seems to be safe. Rick Remender and Wes Craig seem intent on putting everyone through the wringer, and Craig (with colours from Jordan Boyd) is reminding everyone why he’s one of the best artists working in comics today.

| Published by Image / Giant Generator

Doctor Strange #388 is another integral part of the Damnation event, diving into Strange’s possession and what’s going on with the other fallen heroes current plaguing Vegas at Mephisto’s behest. The story from Donny Cates is good, weird, and has Niko Henrichon at the very top of his game.

| Published by Marvel

Domino #1 is damn great. In some ways, it feels like old home week, as Gail Simone brings back some of the characters and stylistic quirks from her time writing Deadpool and Agent X, complete with the humour, action, and absurdity, but at the same time, this feels fresh. It’s not as over the top as the other two outings and it makes for what feels to me like a better story. It also makes the humour pop a bit more as it feels natural. Also, the art from David Baldeón and Jesus Aburtov is gorgeous. Baldeón surprised me with how great his art has become on Spirits of Vengeance and here he’s bringing it to an even higher level. This first issue is fun and comes very recommended.

| Published by Marvel

Dry County #2 sets up the mystery. After being embroiled in Janet’s life as a kind of sad sack saviour in the first issue, Lou gets his hopes dashed by her kidnapping this issue. If it follows traditional Miami Noir themes, I have my suspicions about it, but here Rich Tommaso plays it straight and uses it to start Lou down the path to find out what happened to her.

| Published by Image

Exiles #1 begins a gathering the team arc, as Blink is drafted back into the multiverse-saving business by the reappearance of the Tallus and the Unseen’s premonitions of the white fire of nothingness caused by the Time Eater. Saladin Ahmed does a great job of playing with Exiles history and Marvel ephemera in constructing this first issue, but the real star is the artwork. Javier Rodríguez is one of Marvel’s underrated talents who really should be heralded as a superstar. Here, he, Álvaro López, and Jordie Bellaire make this issue one of the most visually interesting on the stands, with great page layouts, interesting panel transitions, phenomenal use of page for storytelling effect, and unique character designs. This is a great start and I’m dying to see more.  

| Published by Marvel

Gideon Falls #2 continues a slow burn through the story, focusing on both Norton and Father Fred’s experiences with the black barn, and the world beyond them not believing their respective stories. It’s a common horror and mystery thread, but it’s still interesting how Jeff Lemire is framing the narrative and building the characters through the dialogue. Also, the art from Andrea Sorrentino and Dave Stewart continues to be amazing. 

| Published by Image

Ninja-K #6 plays with a number of the messes that have yet to be cleaned up across the Valiant universe. It’s interesting to see Christos Gage play with the toys, with visceral art from Juan José Ryp and Jordie Bellaire.

| Published by Valiant

No. 1 With a Bullet #6 is a brilliant end to what has been an excellent series. Jacob Semahn, Jorge Coello, and Jen Hickman have a story here that is relevant in today’s society obsessed with social media, and delves deep into what can happen when that obsession turns deadly and debilitating. There’s one last twist this issue and the art, especially as it simulates the current state of Nash’s eyesight, is amazing. I highly recommend this series.

| Published by Image

Oblivion Song #2 fleshes out a bit more what happened from Earth’s perspective on the day that parts of Philadelphia fell into Oblivion. It’s interesting to see it unfold, especially in relation to the two recent survivors who came back. It’s slow going, and there are oblique character moments, but it’s enthralling.

| Published by Image

The October Faction: Supernatural Dreams #2 sees the summoned demon wandering around, causing havoc, raising hell. Oh, and Geoff and Vivian get their butts handed to them.

| Published by IDW

Prism Stalker #2, like the first issue, is very, very strange. On the one hand, it’s presented and illustrated by Sloane Leong as this surrealist weird comic that almost defies classification. Kind of like some of the silent indie comics out there that are more experienced than “read”. On the other hand, the story Leong presents is fairly mundane, one of coming of age in what appears to be an oppressive alien society. I’m not really sure what to make of it still, but it has my attention.

| Published by Image

ROM & The Micronauts #4 gets the full band back together in our world as the final battle against Baron Karza and the Dire Wraiths looms on the horizon. Christos Gage waxes philosophical on physical and emotional change, and how love will find a way in strange cases, but what’s really pushing us towards the final battle is the promise of raising the Lovecraftian monstrosity at the heart of the Earth.

| Published by IDW

Sleepless #5 works further on the intrigue going on, revealing that some of the plots may not have been put into motion by who we may have be led to believe previously.

| Published by Image

Sword of Ages #3 has the crap hit the fan. Some of the political machinations come to a head and it’s all pretty glorious. Gabriel Rodríguez is telling an incredible story here, adapting Arthurian legend in a very unique way.

| Published by IDW

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #81 is a densely packed narrative, picking up on the threads from the recently concluded Triceratons arc, the running undercurrent of Splinter’s ideas for the Foot Clan, while also spilling out the return of the Rat King after TMNT Universe #19. There’s a lot going on, but I’d argue that Kevin Eastman, Bobby Curnow, and Tom Waltz make it accessible and interesting. Aiding in that effort is phenomenal art from Dave Wachter and Ronda Pattison.

| Published by IDW

Thanos #18 concludes “Thanos Wins” and with it this chapter of the Mad Titan’s adventures (apart from a forthcoming annual in a couple of weeks). This issue is big and epic and has a very interesting ending. Donny Cates, Geoff Shaw, and Antonio Fabela have outdone themselves.

| Published by Marvel

Vs. #3 gets a look at the ruling class in this world, trying to figure out why Flynn’s ratings remain high despite him continuing to suffer losses. It’s a little dry, but it does set up some further conflict between Flynn and Devi, and continues to draw some beautiful art from Esad Ribić.

| Published by Image

X-Men Blue #25 gives us a main story with Magneto’s confrontation of Miss Sinister and her allies, while Polaris and the other remaining X-Men lick their wounds in Madripoor. There’s also a back-up that serves as a bridge between the “Poison X” and Venomized stories for the original five and Venom, with some really nice art by Mike Perkins and Andy Troy.

| Published by Marvel

X-Men Red #3 gives some more oblique hints at what’s really going on, as anti-mutant hysteria begins reaching critical mass and attacks, protests, and riots begin to spill over. Tom Taylor is aptly using parallels to current events across America and the world here and it makes it a bit scarier.

| Published by Marvel

Other Highlights: Algeria is Beautiful Like America, The Archies #6, Astonisher #6, The Beauty #21, Ben Reilly: The Scarlet Spider #17, The Despicable Deadpool #298, DuckTales #8, Eternal Empire #8, Falcon #7, Ghost Money #9, James Bond: Casino Royale, Minky Woodcock: The Girl Who Handcuffed Houdini #4, Old Man Logan #38, Planets of the Apes: Ursus #4, Resident Alien: An Alien in New York #1, Rick Veitch’s The One #3, Rose #10, Shock, Spider-Man vs. Deadpool #31, Star Wars: Darth Vader #14, Star Wars: Thrawn #3, Tomb Raider: Survivor’s Crusade #4, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl #31, Venomized #2

Recommended Collections: Aliens/Predator/Prometheus: Fire & Stone, Cable - Volume 2: Newer Mutants, Clover Honey, Coyotes - Volume 1, Deadpool vs. Old Man Logan, DuckTales: Mysteries and Mallards, Family Trade - Volume 1, Jean Grey - Volume 2: Final Fight, Lazarus X+66, Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man - Volume 2: Most Wanted, Rock Candy Mountain - Volume 2, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Volume 5: Arms Race, TMNT/Usagi Yojimbo - Expanded Edition, Transformers: Till All Are One - Volume 3, The Unbelievable Gwenpool - Volume 5: Lost in the Plot, Underwhere

d. emerson eddy tried to make a souffle a few days ago. It fell.

[scriptstructure]

What's the difference between third person and omnipotent? I'm trying to beta read this one fanfic, and I feel like the author switches between the two without meaning to, but I can't recognize them well enough to tell, and now I'm confused.

Third person refers to the way that the characters are referred to, third person is saying ‘he does this, he goes there, she walks, she talks, she loves coffee’. There are different degrees of third person perspective, one of which is omniscient.

[Also, it’s called omniscient, not omnipotent. Omniscient means knowing everything, while Omnipotent means able to do everything]

The different degrees of third person perspective are in relation to how much information beyond the protagonist or focalising character’s personal knowledge of the world and events around them the narrative voice or narrator will be able to tell.

A limited third person POV refers to a POV that is limited to being very close to what the protagonist/ focalising character knows.

An omniscient third person POV refers to a POV where the narrator or narrative voice knows not only what the main or focalising character is thinking, but can comment on what other characters are thinking or feeling, and can comment on a more ‘global’ scale of events or knowledge.

Of course, these are done by degrees. The ‘world’ of the story is what the omniscient narrator is privy to, and the ‘world’ might be limited to a single town or a single house. Whatever it is that encompasses the whole of the action of the story.

For example:

Limited: Sarah looked at the snail hauling its shell up the stone wall, she traced back over the trail it left behind and wondered if that was a metaphor for something. A noise from in the house jolted her from her reverie and she checked the time -- she was going to be late! -- and she tugged her school bag higher on her back and rushed up the street to the bus stop.

Omniscient: While Sarah stood in her mother’s garden pondering a snail, the bus driver rounded the corner and saw ahead that one of the students she would be picking up was missing. She wondered if the girl was sick off, but she also knew that that one was often late. Almost on queue, the girl appeared from down her road, running for the stop, her massive book bag jolting against the small of her back.

Incidentally while all this was going on, three towns over someone was discovering a chemical produced by the common or garden snail that could assist with acne treatment, and on the other side of the planet, a small rocket was being sent up to space, with two scientists inside to study a group of important plants and the effect that space would have on their flowering and seeding, and one hungry snail which had somehow been overlooked, but would have enormous consequences for the mission.

This omniscient example is a little overblown, but you can see that in an omniscient perspective you can cover a vast area of the world of the story. This can be useful if you want the reader to see the full scope of the world and how all these divergent plots connect together long before they join up in the protagonist’s personal plot. It can also be useful if there are multiple divergent plots that interact and affect one another, but which the protagonist never knows about.

For instance, if the snail in space and the snail related acne cure both affect Sarah’s life, but she doesn’t know about them except for the impact that they later have on her, then in a limited third person perspective the reader won’t learn about the events leading up to that affect.

In an omniscient perspective, the different plots can be covered at the same time, without ‘head hopping’.

Now head hopping is another element that is relevant here. A lot of stories that use a limited third person POV utilise head hopping to be able to show multiple perspectives. A Song of Ice and Fire does this. Each character that gets their own chapters acts as the focaliser for that chapter, the limited third person perspective means that the reader sees the world through the prism of that character’s knowledge and prejudices.

If there were a chapter where Dany and Stannis met up, and it was told from Dany’s perspective, we wouldn’t know what Stannis was thinking or feeling, only what Dany could glean from his actions and behaviour.

A lot of people slip up when head hopping, and will start writing about both characters’ internal feelings when they should be focusing on one of them and have the other one closed off. I suspect that this may be what’s happening with the story you’re beta-ing.

To continue with the ASOIAF example, if the chapter is Dany’s, and then halfway through the narration starts talking about how Stannis is angry because so-and-so screwed up on something and how he feels about Dany etc, then the POV is slipping. To preserve the perspective, the chapter needs to be kept to what Dany could reasonably know or guess from what she is able to perceive about the situation. Anything other than that that Stannis feels needs to be reserved for his own chapter. For instance, he could have a paragraph or two thinking back on how angry he’d been throughout the meeting for whatever reason. But blending the two will just make things confused and difficult to parse.

So you’ll want to look at the MS you’re reading and figure out:

What kind of narration is this intended to be? Limited or Omniscient?

What issues are making it seem weird? 

Is there inappropriate perspective slippage?

Could the problems be caused by weak transitions between perspectives?

[lunawings]

Pretty Rhythm DMF 42

Seriously the subs stop exactly when everything gets amazing??? 

Rewatching this series was such a good decision?!?!?

(I have started summarizing the episodes which did not get subbed. It starts from episode 40 so please scroll down on my blog or search the Dear My Future tag to start there.)

Kyoko solemnly discusses with Jun how it’s all over. Only Puretty is left, but Puretty doesn’t actually belong to Pretty Top so they have basically lost everything now that Serenon w/K, LoveMix, and finally Prizzmy have one to the Symphonia side.  

Meanwhile Puretty is at Chae Kyong’s Dad’s planetarium trying to make sense of what Mia said about going beyond the stars. It’s called the Myong Ja Planetarium after Chae Kyong (and Yunsu)’s Mom. Chae Kyong also mentions that her mother has a star named after her, but it wasn’t from her dad. It was from a former lover. (Meaning Kintaro.) Kintaro once told Myong Ja that their future was beyond the stars.

Sho is distraught that Prizzmy lost, but Yunsu is convinced that this has proven that remaking the Symphonia dresses is the right path and convinces Sho to stop moping around and focus on Puretty’s Pretty Remake. They take a walk on the beach to try Yunsu’s way of thinking up designs. They bond over how although their methods are different but their love for Aira is the same.

Although Puretty is enthralled by the planetarium but they still just don’t know how to get beyond the stars. Hye In suggests they just kick a hole in the roof, but So Min quickly reminds her that only applies to planetariums. Still, Hye In insists that there is an invisible wall in space which they have built with their fear and they can overcome it.

Time for more manly bonding. Yunsu pokes Sho with a stick for at least 10 seconds because he doesn’t like his face. 

They talk about how the driftwood on the beach has seen so many things and are inspired to start designing in the sand.

Kyoko begs Michelle to take Puretty back to Korea, but Michelle says that the girls have grown so much under Kyoko that they are destined to win. She leaves Puretty in Kyoko’s hands.

Sho and Yunsu slept on the beach all night together apparently. 

“It’s time,” they say, lying next to each other in the sand and surrounded by dress designs.

Yunsu, Sho, and Puretty head to the Prism World as MARs performs. Meganee informs them that it could have been just a coincidence that the Pretty Remake worked for Prizzmy, but she realizes Sho and Yunsu aren’t going to bend and they begin the remake.  

INTENSE MANLY DRESSMAKING. 

So Min gets the sky dress for… evolving after she confessed to Yunsu and never showing the same emotion twice?  Jae Eun gets the sun dress for having a lot of energy. Chae Kyong gets the ocean dress for her vast calmness. (Really? Did I hear that right?) Shi Yoon gets the earth dress for being their rock. Hye In gets the starry sky dress for every ending being a beginning? Something like that? (This part seemed very random and rushed. Why is the sky dress orange? Why is the starry dress flowery? Oh well, not much of a point in complaining now… I mean these are classic legendary coords we’re talking about… b… but…)

So together with these attributes Puretty forms Captain Planet I mean the earth.

Once again the main dress, this time Hye In’s, fails to be remade. Hye In seems way more troubled than Mia was, but everyone takes her hands and reassures her that they are connected. 

Even though Kintaro is sure his design is perfect, Aira’s Prism Act still will not evolve… 

Puretty succeeds in passing through the door with their Symphonia coords. Aira actually looks down this time, and allows Hye In to take her by the hand. Rhythm and Mion say that won’t work though, and So Min and the others take Hye In’s hand and remind her they have to go beyond the stars.

Puretty tells Aira to look at their clothes and remember that everyone is waiting for her. Aira listens to the voices of the clothes and everything begins to change.  Aira’s sadness is lifted and Puretty bursts through space to the blue sky above, completing Sky High Symphonia. 

Back in the real world Aira has come to her senses. She apologizes to Rhythm and Mion and tells Kintaro that Puretty’s feelings with Sho and Yunsu’s designs have won against him. 

Puretty has won! Everyone is freed and Mia runs straight to Hye In. Sho and Yunsu go straight to Aira who tells them that their Pretty Remake reached her. Insert scene interrupting Kaname. 

She killed them. 

(No really the episode ends before they get up again.)

So Aira’s back but Kintaro will not accept that he lost. 

“ACCEPT IT! YOU LOST!” says Kyoko’s mother Kei as the credits roll… 

Still a lot of episodes left. I totally forget what happens after this except for a few details here and there. It was rather ballsy of them to have Prizzmy fail. Where were they all this time by the way? The Shadow Realm I guess. (Even if they were under a contract I think it still counts as kidnapping to take a bunch of minors up on a blimp for several days with no contact to anyone…)

So yeah. 

Sho and Yunsu stayed up on the beach in Odaiba all night designing pretty dresses by campfire until they collapsed next to each other. Even if nothing else happened. The idea. The manly Pretty Remake bonding.

*pokepoke*

[mastcomm]

A View of Brexit From the Soccer Field

PORTSMOUTH, England — The team bus for the Leyton Orient women’s soccer team can sometimes be stifling. More than a dozen players sit, shoulder-to-shoulder, for hours in tedium under fluorescent blue lights (and in fear of having to use the one bathroom). There is, at least, free tea.

The team’s striker, Otesha Charles, a dual citizen of Guyana and Britain, owns a hair salon in south London and eats Sainsbury’s salmon sandwiches before games. Cheryl Anderson, an accountant and defender from Scotland, is so soft-spoken and nice that it can be stunning to see her dive into a hard slide tackle. The others are teachers, postal workers, lawyers and a London subway driver.

And then there is me, a former collegiate athlete from America who landed in London last January at a moment when every day brought another screaming headline about how Brexit had torn the country apart.

“We had to move forward before the damage caused became irreparable,” one Briton lamented.

On the surface, our team is a snapshot of Britain, containing many of its divisions. There are Leavers and Remainers. There are immigrants from different corners of the world, transplanted Europeans and players from across Britain.

On hourslong bus rides to bleak stadiums, I started to understand this country a little better through the personal stories of my teammates more than I had from any shouting lawmaker or television talking head.

Two players talked about insufficient government funding at state schools where they taught. Another who had endured several knee surgeries emphasized the importance of the National Health Service. And everyone complained about the train delays.

Some of the European players who want to continue living and working in Britain were working to secure their settled status before Brexit takes full effect at the end of this year.

Leyton Orient was just one team, in one city, in a country with deep economic, social and political division. But seeing everything through the prism of Brexit wasn’t how these women lived.

On a particularly wet Sunday in December, we drove a few hours to Portsmouth, a city on England’s south coast that voted overwhelmingly to leave the European Union. It was so cold that the stadium served Bovril — a kind of salty, meaty broth engineered to warm fans during the bleakest weather. The field was a waterlogged pit of mud, beaten into submission by never-ending rain.

One teammate saw my horrified gaze and smiled: “Welcome to English football.”

The fear that Brexit has polarized Britain beyond repair is often discussed by commentators. But activities like sports, music clubs and communal gardens — the “micro-publics” of everyday life — can change how people from different backgrounds or political leanings think and interact with one another.

“Physical proximity in its own right doesn’t yield a huge amount,” said Ash Amin, a geography professor at the University of Cambridge. “But if the shared activity lasts, then the political discussion may follow. And disagreement may not close down the dialogue because of the civility that arises from a shared activity and shared space.”

Our two starting central midfielders are an example. They play together seamlessly, bouncing one-and-two-touch passes off each other, but off the field they’re two very different people.

Fran Ali, a 26-year-old midfielder from east London, works as a planning specialist for Britain’s rail system. She said she voted for Brexit because she wanted Britain to have more control over its future.

“I’m not too into politics, don’t get me wrong,” she said later at a packed pub back in London. “But my main reason voting for leave was so that we could control our laws, our borders and our money.”

Her midfield partner is Egle Trezzi, a 31-year-old photographer from outside Milan who moved to Britain more than a decade ago and teaches at Goldsmiths University in London.

“Personally, I think it’s a stupid idea,” she said of Brexit as we drove home from a game in January, under the kind of sky that suggests the sun will never come out again. “I don’t support it, and whatever happens, it’s going to be bad.”

Fran said she recalled once teasing Egle for “being lefty,” but said they had never gotten into an argument over politics. “I respect her views, and she respects mine.”

In November, when we played in Cheltenham — an area that voted to remain — the general election was just weeks away. Prime Minister Boris Johnson was campaigning on a promise to “get Brexit done,” while the Labour Party and the Liberal Democrats offered another vote on Brexit.

But we didn’t talk about any of that.

The muddy field defined our world that day as we picked one another up out of wet holes, cleared clods of earth from our cleats and laughed at who was the dirtiest. We won the game 1-0 and, for the first time in the team’s history, made it to the second round of the FA Cup, one of the world’s oldest soccer tournaments.

We were promised a celebratory dinner on the ride home, but this was a Sunday in England and almost everything was closed. At a gas station, we bought cheap beers and canned gin and tonics instead.

At a January game against Cambridge City, a university town that overwhelmingly supported staying in the bloc, the locker room was covered in a thin layer of filth. A sign taped to the wall said, “Please do not clean your boots in the showers.” The showers were cold.

There was no trainer with us that day, so the players started getting one another ready for the game: taping ankles, stretching hamstrings, passing around any pain reliever we had.

“Football is its own form of communication, and it’s often a nonverbal form of communication,” said Becca Hirst, 23, who grew up playing in Liverpool and voted to remain.

But she wondered whether soccer on its own was enough to bridge any real divides. “How far do the people that you meet playing football translate into your everyday politics, your everyday actions, your feelings toward other people?”

Some British voters said they favored leaving the bloc so that Britain could have more control over immigration and over who is allowed to live and work in the country.

But that debate revived questions around British identity — including who is British and who is not.

Otesha came to Britain when she was seven years old, and said she remembered feeling like an outsider. The other students at her school “wanted to hear my little Caribbean accent,” she said. “I didn’t feel British. I knew I was Guyanese in England.”

She credits soccer with helping shape her sense of British identity. “Having a big team of 22 girls, I started to feel like this was my community,” she said. “I am a part of England and everything that comes with it.”

Britain’s official departure from the European Union on Friday is mostly symbolic. The transition period is due to last through the end of the year, allowing time for negotiations over trade and other relations.

But maybe once the tie is formally cut, people on both sides of Brexit can reconcile.

“There are people on this team who voted leave and who voted remain, and it had no impact on our team ethos or hanging out outside of football,” said Sophie Le Marchand, a 31-year-old player from Worcester who is a teacher. “It had no impact whatsoever.”

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/sport/a-view-of-brexit-from-the-soccer-field-2/